I write fiction. It’s what I’ve done for a significant part
of my life, and one way or another, it’s what I’ll do until the day I die. I
glory in the possibility of it, the freedom from depicting the world as it is
and as it has to be. Instead, I can depict the world as it could be, as it
deserves to be. I can even (and do) depict different worlds entirely.
And so I was understandably a little unsettled by a trend
I’ve found in fiction. I consider fiction to be purposeful only when it tries
to improve the world; completely accepting something that is flawed and unjust
in the world weakens a work. As senseless as it is, that is exactly what most
of the fiction-making world is doing with each page, each episode, each
blockbuster. Ignoring a problem. A troubling trend.
I was understandably a little disturbed to find that I was
following this trend, as well.
The Problem
This particular issue has been addressed by many before
me—by so many and so often, in fact, that it has a name. What I am referring to
is the Smurfette Principle. According to tvtropes.org, the Smurfette Principle
is:
“[T]he tendency for works of fiction to have exactly one
female amongst an ensemble of male characters… Said only woman will almost
always be used as half of a romance subplot.”
This problem is ubiquitous among works of fiction, whether
they be TV shows, movies, comics, or literature. Even as you read this, you’re
likely realizing that one of your favorite works of fiction falls prey to this.
But here is the question that people are constantly in debate over:
Why is this a thing?
It goes without saying that women are half of a given
society’s population, and it is equally obvious that women match men as
consumers of fiction. Intuition states that they would be well-represented,
then; that half, or more than half, of all creative works should have female
main characters, and that even those whose main character was male would be
full of interesting, powerful women.
But that’s not the case. Women are underrepresented in
fiction to a startling degree. When they are
present, they are often “the girl” and nothing more. In the rare case that
there are interesting, capable women, they are hobbled by a patriarchal society
which does not allow for women to gain power.
Let me put that to you in a different way. In worlds which
the artist has created, and which need not resemble our own in the least, women
are largely either nonexistent, romantic interests, cardboard-cutout fringe
characters, or powerless damsels.
The Popular Theory
Some people believe that this is a marketing ploy. There has
always been a Smurfette, even before Minnie Mouse was introduced as Mickey’s
other half. Because there has always been one, the audience expects one, don’t
they? They don’t expect equality among gender representation in fiction. The
very idea is ridiculous! How can they want something they’ve never known they
could have? Thus, the big-wig executives, “The Man”, only green-light media
that are part of the problem. And the creator of the fiction figures, “make
what sells, right”? and hops on the bandwagon.
Personally, I don’t buy this. There has been fiction that
fairly represents women. X-Men, in which there are almost as many women as men,
and in which the women have equal depth and importance, comes to mind. The
Wheel of Time does, as well, not only because half the cast is female, but
because the characters live in a matriarchal society in which it is hard for a
male to gain traction. Harry Potter does, too, since the title character only
has a chance of outshining Hermione if You-Know-Who is around. I find it
unlikely that “The Man” would okay some stories with women in the lead, but not
others.
Why, then, are women so poorly represented?
I believe that supporters of the previous theory are
half right. I believe that most of the blame does rest with the creators of the fiction in question. But, as one
such creator of fiction, who also just happens to be male, I feel I have
insight into the problem that reveals a very different cause.
My Theory
As a man, it is easier to write men. It is also safer. There
will be no one waiting to cast stones of “wrote him wrong” at a glass house of
pretty words. No one will accuse the creator of being sexist for depicting the
thoughts of a man unfavorably. Not like they might if that man was to write
women.
That’s it. Simple as that.
Now those of you who have watched or read most anything
worthwhile will know that way of thinking is just stupid. Women in fiction are
characters who happen to be female. Treating them as anything more mysterious
is doing a disservice to equality in fiction. And a writer opens himself up to at least an even
amount of criticism for not introducing worthwhile women in the first place as
he does for writing them badly.
But a fourteen year old writing his first few precious words
can’t see this. To that fourteen year old, women are mysterious, impossible to comprehend. And to that eager
teenager, who looks for approval from every eye who glances at his work—that
teenager, who is crushed by every well-meaning criticism—there is nothing in
the world more frightening than attempting to write women.
So he doesn’t. Maybe he decides this in a firm sort of way,
that he just will not try, or maybe
he decides this one character at a time. I’m
just not ready, he might say to himself. The next one will be a woman. I promise. But he finds, as he grows
as a writer, that it is progressively easier to write men, progressively more
comfortable. Soon, he knows, he probably could
write a woman. But that must be a hassle, to worry about every word, every
thought, and suppress the part of himself that is inherently male.
He can’t know that his difficulty in writing women stems
only from a fear and refusal to do so, and that, should he try, he could double
his repertoire and expand his world’s possibilities exponentially.
And by the time he realizes, he might have already found
success with what he has. Why should he change what has worked so far? Why fix
what isn’t broken?
I fell prey to this mindset for years. But beneath my
growing comfort with writing the male mind, there was also a growing sense that
something wasn’t right. Strange as it sounds, it had become so natural to
include women only as a romantic interest or because, “Hey, there has to be some women, right?” that it took a real look to realize what was
missing.
And then a light bulb clicked on, throwing the grotesque
shape of my work into focus.
I realized that, in my 800 plus page novel, I only had one
significant female character. I realized that, as capable, powerful,
well-developed, proactive, and essential to the plot as she might be, she was
also essentially just a romantic interest. I realized that, though my world had
the shadows of ten thousand years of history behind it, there was nothing in it
that should cause the patriarchal traditions I had naively set in place. I
realized that I had somehow, amongst all my other considerations, left the women out.
And by then, three drafts in, there was nothing for it but
knuckle down to finish and promise to myself that, in future books, things
would be changing very quickly.
To anyone who wonders how such blatant sexism could occur
with relatively little outcry, I propose one theory I have not seen elsewhere:
it happens because it always has, because teenage boys are stupid, and because
men, as they say, are only boys grown tall.
I have been a part of the problem without ever seeing there
was one. Now, when this disparity haunts each step I take down the path toward
being published, I find myself incapable of being a part of the problem
anymore.
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Thanks for reading!
Here’s the full page on the Smurfette Principle on
tvtropes.org:
And here’s another good
article to read on the subject:
