Is Your Fiction too Real? Lessons from Downton Abbey, Death, and Believability

Whether we write about early 20^th century aristocrats or sparkly vampires, super-heroes or detectives, most writers want to inject a sense of realism into our stories.

Characters should always be believable, and plot developments should grow out of the choices they’ve made and the world they live in, not random events.

However, knowing when a plot development comes across as believable or not can be difficult.

One of the most believable works of fiction I’ve encountered recently is Downton Abbey, the British historical drama airing on PBS in the U.S.  I’ve sung DA’s praises before, and it remains an engaging and thoughtful drama every writer of fiction should study.

No show is perfect, however, and DA started to show the cracks in its fine dinnerware this season through the near back-to-back deaths of two major characters. Spoiler warning: Read no further if you don’t want plot details of the third season spoiled for you.

First, Lady Sybil died in childbirth in a wholly believable and heart-wrenching sequence.

Then viewers were rocked again in the season finale. Matthew Crawley, husband of Sybil's sister, Mary, and father of Mary's newborn son, died in a car crash.

I’ll give series creator Julian Fellowes props for foreshadowing Matthew’s exit. Fellowes built Matthew up as a character we care about, a handsome young lawyer whose business savvy saved the family from financial ruin. 

Matthew’s impulsive streak was also well displayed this season, making the circumstances of his demise somewhat credible. 

And Fellowes had to manage an all-too-real situation of series television: Sometimes actors want to leave. 

Still, I have two complaints concerning Matthew’s death. One is that he, like Sybil, died right after becoming a parent.  The second is the rather obvious way Matthew was played up to be the family savior this season.

Real Life, Fiction, and Coincidence

Yes, I know eerie coincidences happen in real life. And I’ve experienced first-hand how families can be devastated by one senseless tragedy after another.

But therein lies the difference between fiction and reality. Reality doesn’t have to make sense; fiction should.

In fact, fiction is often used to make sense of reality. In Good Scripts, Bad Scripts, screenwriter Thomas Pope wrote:

Art doesn’t try to imitate life, but rather distills its essence to find and reveal the truths beneath the lies, the meaning behind the meaninglessness, the structure in the randomness. Even when it doesn’t show those deeper truths, it can at least let people see, for a few popcorn-drenched moments, a better world, where heroes triumph and life has structure and meaning (xix).

Of course, Downton Abbey is not about heroes triumphing--at least not always. It’s about ordinary people coming to terms with their changing world.

Even so, the series excels at finding “meaning behind the meaningless” and “structure in the randomness." Sybil's death, for example, led to painful scenes between her mother, Cora, and her father, Robert, both of whom believed he was responsible for her death, and to an interesting resolution when the family doctor fibs (or not) to save their marriage.

Sybil's widower, Tom Branson, has had to cope with enormous changes in his life before and since his wife's death. He struggles to move forward, to do what's best for the family, as heroes do.

Matthew's death, on the other hand, comes off as a little more than contrived--an end-of-season cliffhanger worthy of the worst soap operas.

(Fellowes explained, in the article linked to above, why he wrote Matthew out as he did. And while his reasons make perfect sense from a television series writer's point of view, the event still fell flat in the episode itself.)

Is Your Story Too "Realistic"?

For writers, this development illustrates the pratfalls of attempting to make our stories too real. Too much randomness, too much meaninglessness, no matter how “realistic,” can throw the reader out of your story. 

So, how do you know when an event in your story, such as the death of a major character, is believable?  Consider the following:

• Does the event flow naturally from who the characters are and from the choices they’ve made?
• Does the event contribute something substantial to your story, or is it intended merely for shock value?
• Does the event have lasting repercussions for the characters and/or their survivors?
• Have you set up (foreshadowed) the event so that, even if it comes as a surprise, it seems inevitable?
• Is the event too similar to something else that’s happened in your story?

Set It Up, But Not Too Loudly

Even if you think through the answers to these questions, a sudden and drastic change can still feel contrived. Fellowes went a little overboard this season in playing up Matthew's importance to the family and general good character.

Matthew even forced an 18-year-old cousin to break off an affair with a married man, rooted for his sister-in-law Edith in her new career as a journalist, and belatedly earned his father-in-law’s appreciation for saving the family home.

If Matthew hadn't died (and if more of the family were Catholic), he'd have become a living saint.

The Times They are a-Changin’—in Downton Abbey: How a British Historical Drama Speaks to Us Today

This post profiles a television series every writer of fiction should follow. Downton Abbey airs on PBS on Sunday evenings. Check your local listings.

In the 1960s, American folk legend Bob Dylan sang, “The Times They are a-Changin’.” He could easily have been talking about a current British television drama set more than 40 years earlier—Downton Abbey.

I recently tried to describe this outstanding series to two friends who were looking for something to watch on TV. These friends, both older women, prefer to spend their leisure time watching football games. Unfortunately, I barely got to describe one of Downton’s more vivid characters—the upper-crusty Violet, dowager countess of Grantham—before they decided the show wasn’t for them.

The British are Coming . . . Again

On the surface, the show isn’t for everyone. Why should most working and middle-class Americans, for example, care about an imaginary family of British nobility and the servants who wait on them? After all, didn’t we fight a revolution to get away from these people and their rigid social system? Why invite them back into our homes, even if only on our TV screens?

Well, because we can learn a lot from Downton Abbey in terms of how the characters react to the changing world around them. As the central character, Robert, earl of Grantham, said in last week’s episode, such changes can leave one feeling like an animal forced to flee its habitat or face extinction.

Robert should know. He presides over one of England’s great houses (a castle, to us Americans), the fictitious Downton Abbey. Robert is descended from England’s old-line aristocracy. His household includes an American-born wife, three grown daughters, and a small army of servants who look after their every need.

And therein lies Robert’s initial problem: lack of an heir.

British law at the time forbade estates and titles from being passed down through female lines. Thus, none of Robert’s daughters could inherit Downton Abbey. What’s a poor earl to do? Find a distant male relative to one day succeed him.

Enter Matthew Crawley, whose great-great grandfather happened to be the younger brother of one of Robert's forbears. Matthew, a handsome young lawyer, was raised by his widowed mother, Isobel—an outspoken woman devoted to social causes such as helping the poor.

Suddenly these two very middle class people find themselves elevated to life among the aristocracy. (In American terms, this would be the equivalent of winning the lottery.)  But it’s hardly a smooth transition. The inevitable culture clash ensues.

Getting to Know You . . . and Not Like You Very Much

If all of this sounds like a U.K. version of Dallas, the iconic American series about the schemings and dealings of a wealthy Texas oil family, it’s not. While Robert and his kin are used to being on top of the world, they are basically decent folk. 

The series does not need a maliciously evil J.R. Ewing to spice things up (though a couple of servants do fit this bill). Conflict evolves more naturally from characters coming into contact with people who are not like them.

For example, when youngest daughter Sybil elopes with the chauffeur, Tom Branson, scandal ensues.

Then there’s Matthew and eldest daughter Mary. Typical of most TV dramas, these two very pretty people are “made for each other” yet their very different upbringings and worldviews (not to mention World War I) have, until recently, kept them apart. Even their marriage, which kicked off the third series, did not alleviate tensions over inheritance.

Tradition . . . Good and Bad

The story lines give equal time to the “upstairs” Crawley family and the “downstairs” servants.  However a trait shared by most characters and which might unsettle some Americans is that almost no one wishes to upset the social order. For example, Mr. Carson, the butler, and Mrs. Hughes, the housekeeper, have spent their entire lives looking after the Crawley family. They resist change most of all.

Yet change must come. Servants employed at the great house may be better off than some, but not everyone is so fortunate. One maid, Ethel, loses her job and winds up a single mother eking out a living as a prostitute. The genteel British social order made no room for women like her who fell through the cracks.

Downton Abbey is a complex and entertaining series that teaches us a lot about history and also about where we are going. The world of Downton Abbey has experienced enormous changes from the sinking of the Titanic to women's suffrage. So, too, is our world changing. Issues such as gay rights frighten a lot of people. They represent a break with the way things "have always been."  

But while the show does not offer easy solutions, it suggests that embracing change leaves one better off than avoiding it. 

How to Write an Unlikeable Character

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I didn’t set out to do it, but it happened anyway.

The main character in one of my works-in-progress is “ignorant,” “priggish” and “holier-than-thou,” according to a member of my writing group.  In other words, the character is downright unlikeable.

And I’m fine with that. 

Unlikeable heroes – sometimes called antiheroes – are fascinating.  Like Travis Bickle in Taxi (shown above), they tend to be characters we identify with and love to watch in action, whether we admit it or not.

But there is a trick to writing an unlikeable character – a balance, a trade-off, a way to avoid alienating the audience from the character (although other characters may be so alienated).

Before we get to that trick, let’s look at three reasons why unlikeable characters are so appealing:

Unlikeable characters mirror our own struggles for acceptance and to get ahead.  In the British historical drama Downton Abbey (airing Sunday evenings on PBS), Thomas is a self-serving, ambitious, and ingratiating footman who steals and lies.  Full of arrogance, he lords it over the other servants of the house when he is appointed military liaison during World War I.  After the war, he tries to get ahead by dabbling in the black market. 

His schemes invariably fail, sometimes with laughable results, but he keeps trying, and, in the 2011 Christmas Special, he finally wins a long sought-after promotion.

Thomas might better be classified as an antagonist than an antihero, except he is so wonderfully complex part of us hopes he will succeed.  When several members of both the family and staff take ill with the Spanish flu, Thomas pitches in – free of charge (“Consider it rent,” he says) – to help out.  We know it’s just another scheme to ingratiate himself further, but part of us wants to believe Thomas is indeed changing or that he will see that by helping others, he can help himself.  We know this probably won’t happen, but there’s hope.

Unlikeable characters express struggles within us.  Wolverine, the iconic X-Men antihero, began as an antisocial, mildly sociopathic misfit who antagonized his teammates, was contantly on the verge of going berserk, and possibly violated one of the oldest codes for super-heroes by killing villains.  In one early scene (Uncanny X-Men # 96, December 1975), Wolverine does indeed go berserk and hacks and slashes away at a monstrous enemy.  Afterwards, he expresses regret that many years of discipline and prayer had failed to bring his animalistic side under control – but also astonishment that he enjoyed inflicting such carnage!

Wolverine represents our sometimes conflicting desires to control less savory aspects of our characters and to finally give in to and revel in those traits.  It’s no coincidence that Wolvie – a character with claws and a badass attitude – remains one of Marvel’s most popular heroes nearly 40 years after his debut.   But it’s his inner conflicts that make him relatable.

Unlikeable characters represent our own desire to persevere in spite of the unfairness of life.  Wildfire, a member of the Legion of Super-Heroes, is a hero without a body.  Converted by accident into a being of pure energy, he interacts with his fellow Legionnaires, villains, and everyone else through a containment suit that permanently separates him from others.  This condition magnifies his already hot-headed personality: he antagonizes his teammates, much like Wolverine does. 

However, Wildfire proved so popular with fans that he was elected leader of the Legion, giving him even more opportunities to antagonize his teammates with his brusqueness, temper, and autocratic ways. 

Yet for all of his power and popularity, Wildfire can’t do the things ordinary people can.  This was driven home when he eventually developed a relationship with fellow Legionnaire Dawnstar.  Despite his frustration, sexual and otherwise, Wildfire became the Legionnaire many fans rooted for.  He never cared what other Legionnaires thought of him, and he never gave up.

Now for that trick to writing unlikeable characters:

Each of these characters bonds with at least one other character, and the interaction between them helps bring out the unlikeable character’s humanity.  Thus, Thomas has Miss O’Brien (who, herself, is rather unlikeable), the older, vengeful spinster who takes an almost motherly interest in him.  She becomes his co-conspirator in the black market scheme and is there to sympathize with him when it goes horribly wrong. 

Wolverine and Wildfire both had doomed relationships with Phoenix and Dawnstar, respectively.  (And, in the first X-Men film, Wolverine is given a protégée of sorts in Rogue – a relationship which did not exist in the original comics.)

Showing your unlikeable character as being capable of a relationship  – a friendship, a love affair, a confidence – keeps the character from becoming a total misanthrope.  More, it gives us “permission” to like the unlikeable.

What do you think?  Are any of your characters unlikeable?