The Use of Handicap In Creative Writing

I recently reviewed an article by J.J. Cohen in which the author suggested that in producing the Hobbit Trilogy Peter Jackson had embarked upon a quest of his own to create a sort of "disability" epic, which is to suggest that being short, stocky, and possessed of a Scottish brogue is qualification for joining a wheelchair rugby team - and also seems to ignore the total lack of handicapped behavior and prowess demonstrated by all members of the Company, Oin's ear horn, Bifur's incomprehensible Khuzdul and mummery, and Bomber's athletic corpulence notwithstanding.

Poor Bofur (behind 5th from right)

Yet it got me thinking on the matter of introducing greater diversity into my own writing.  I do not mean diversity in the Politically Correct sense - as a quasi-moral obligation - but as a means of introducing something truly interesting and entertaining into the story.  This scheme can have various results upon the story that one has in mind, and, as with all writing tropes, can either make or break a story.  This is perhaps best demonstrated by comparing two authors known for their handicapped protagonists: Mark Haddon and George R.R. Martin. 

Back in my undergraduate writing program one of my classes read Haddon's The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime.  It is the story of an autistic teen, Christopher, and chronicles via inner monologue his adventures crossing town to find his estranged mother.  Obviously the character's disability is the driving force for the story: it determines his actions, which in turn influence the plot and development of the story.  It also raises some questions about writing quality and acceptable boundaries for criticism, since Haddon's depiction of Christopher and his autism is by nature of publication now open to examination.  For instance, one of my classmates observed that, in his personal experience with the mentally disabled, Christopher's condition was inaccurately described, for which he suggested an alternative diagnosis.  But in another vein, Christopher's handicap (and thus his personality) were subject of sharp criticism in our class - which introduces interesting discussions of writing craft and the place of diversity in literature. 

The thing is, many if not most of us could not stand Christopher, but given the PC environment of society today, we had some difficulty expressing our views without discomfort.  Some critics might laud Haddon's work for its "daring" entry into the autistic mind, but I confess that despite appeals to a better nature, I absolutely hated Christopher.  I found his actions and inner monologues tremendously aggravating, and there was precious little to like.  Perhaps a more favorable reader would observe that Haddon does a remarkable job of delving into the rationale behind autistic mental processes, but that did nothing to redeem Christopher in my eyes - and I was not alone in this assessment.  During discussion, another classmate spent a good while in agonized silence, struggling in vain for words sanitary enough to avoid PC castigation.  But when he finally expressed his frustration with Christopher's seemingly inexplicable logic, very few of us disagreed with him.  This is illustrative of the conundrum surrounding sensitive issues, as well as the freedom with which we feel allowed to address them: what is the purpose of disability in literature, and is it appropriate to criticize its handling as one would any other writing trope?

I am sure there's much to say in favor of this book, but frankly my classmate's eventual outburst summed up my view precisely.  Despite what may have been Haddon's best efforts, Christopher was for us a totally unlikeable character, regardless of what some in our hyper-sensitive culture might demand.  These hypothetical thought-police could respond angrily to our assessment of Christopher, but to that I would say that defending The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime solely upon its merits as a tale of handicap is like defending the decision by a worship pastor to add How He Loves Us into the lineup for Sunday service: it is an awful song for many reasons, but as it was composed in a time of personal distress it is unassailable.  It is this sort of reasoning that also produces and defends modern "poetry" and "art."

Bad is bad, and even when an item is really good, personal taste is still subject to the audience. Therefore, it is a disservice to literary criticism to grade the quality of a work solely by the agenda that it champions.  The same is even true of overtly-Christian literature, which often seems to veer away from the elegant evangelism found in Lewis and Tolkien and towards a non sequitur and point blank altar call (I am thinking of the movie adaptation of Ted Dekker's Thr3e - though a full discussion of Christian literature and film deserves its own post).  (Moreover, insofar as the role of taste in the appraisal of otherwise good literature is concerned, I find it interesting to note that Tolkien did not like Lewis' allegorical Chronicles of Narnia.)  To return to my central argument, it is equally a disservice to the story if all one seeks to accomplish by implementation of "diversity" is diversity for its own sake (though I recognize that this is not necessarily true of Haddon's purpose).  So while I applaud Haddon's work on whatever merits it may actually have, I nonetheless reserve the right to despise his protagonist.

The "misshapen" Tyrion Lannister

By contrast, George R.R. Martin nails the handicap epic, pushing the narrative for all it is worth, but never at the expense of the story.  I hasten to add that while I am a fan of Martin's writing capabilities, I cannot recommend his Song of Ice and Fire or its television adaptation, Game of Thrones - indeed, I strongly caution all Christian readers to take into serious consideration Philippians 4:8, Paul's injunction to only think upon good things.  However, I must credit Martin with the creation of the most likeable disabled characters I have ever encountered.  It seems that every other name in Song of Ice and Fire is disabled in some manner, from the old men in their dotage to the crippled Bran.  As for the "properly" handicapped, in contrast with Christopher I absolutely loved Hodor, Bran's laconic, simpleminded giant, while the story's strongest character is Tyrion Lannister, a misshapen dwarf.  Tyrion remains one of my favorite point of view (POV) characters from the series, whose wit and jovial cynicism help him to cope with the aloof behavior (and thinly veiled disgust) of others, even his own family.  Martin lends his inner monologues a hint of pragmatism as well, as he constantly vacillates between hating his form and using it to his advantage, while recognizing when he needs to change tactics based upon the fact that a dwarf by his very nature can only command so much respect. 

The crucial point here is that these characters' handicaps not only have an endearing quality to them, but also produce an interesting impact upon the story.  Tyrion is not a dwarf for its own sake - his disability is itself a plot device that molds him and motivates him, and motivates others, for good or ill.  His condition is integral to Song of Ice and Fire and has real consequences for the people around him and even upon the politics that shape Martin's world.  That, to me, is the point of diversity.

So while I cannot agree with Cohen's assessment of Jackon's "disability" epic, the notion is interesting and one that I hope we get to see more of.  I certainly plan on jumping on the bandwagon! (foreshadowing...)

Shameless Plug

I tend to take these things in shifts, it seems, so if you've been back to see if there's a new post here, try my other blog, Witness Work.  It's had a few posts lately.  Cheers!

Here's a sampling of the sort of stuff floating about over there: