I don't care if your protagonist is thin

We all know that when Goldilocks got to the house in the woods, she was hungry and found three bowls of porridge. One was too hot, one was too cold, and one was just right.

Then she went to sit down in a chair. The first was too big, the second too big as well, but the third was just right.

Although when she sat down, she broke the little chair because obviously, she was lying to herself about her weight and was too heavy for it. Either that, or it was one crappy carpenter, but I don’t think the average woodworker would want to risk pissing off a bear.

Then it was beds, and this time it was too hard, too soft and finally, just right.

Until the bears came home. Then it didn’t matter how “just right” that bed was. Goldilocks got the hell out of there and never went back.

Goldilocks was one seriously fussy little girl.

Either that, or I’m really easy.

Now, some of you know about my tumultuous life in my early years, and I’m not going to bore anyone with a rehash of the details I have shared here in the past. I mention it only because when I was a teenager, I needed something to put my back up against. Some people, when their life is out of control and they haven’t really got an anchor, they go wild. Sex, drugs, crime, whatever. Full-scale rebellion.

I went to church. I was very black and white, morally. There was nothing grey. I even went for a number of years without (gasp! I can’t believe I’m confessing this) listening to secular music.

Now, I’m glad that for a period of time in my life, I was sheltered. Because the time I spent first as student then staff member at a Christian school, was the time my life was literally turned upside down. I was still working there the last time I saw my dad. That would be 11.5 years ago. Suffice it to say that some familial bombshells dropped during that time, and I spent quite a while being pretty confused.

Times like that, a lot of people either go off the edge and turn to anything to numb the pain or look for anchors, absolutes. Anything to keep you from feeling completely adrift.

Didn’t help that much. Oh, I mean, it probably saved my life. I had responsibilities, expectations on me, I couldn’t just lose myself in a bottle or take my problems away with a needle. So, on the one hand, it likely saved me from myself. On the other, I needed some serious mental readjustment when I started to really put my life together, without a crutch.

I’m not calling God a crutch. I’m saying, for the record, that until I left that school I never really started to deal with my problems.

I remember one of the staff people, who told me that I’d “had enough time to deal with my little trauma and it was time to move on.” Whenever I think of that person and some of the completely heartless things I saw that person do, I so badly want to say two words to them. And they’re not ‘bless you’. Well, ‘you’ might be one of them.

There was a good stretch of time between leaving that life and getting married, and even my husband says I’m not the same person he first met.

I consider it a good thing. I mean, sure I’m still opinionated. But I’m more open-minded than I ever was before. I know people who won’t touch a book written by one of those alternative lifestyle people who’re defying God’s laws. I couldn’t care less. We’re all people, right? If you want to put a religious spin on it, all sinners. So what do I care who you sleep with? I don’t. Maybe if you’re a close friend and I know the person’s a jerk and I don’t want to see you get hurt I might have something to say, but beyond that? None of my business,

And I don’t care if you talk like a trucker, because believe me, some of the most “sweet as pie” to your face people I’ve known – like the staff member I referred to - carry the biggest, sharpest knives and use them regularly. I’ve been hurt by a lot of people over the years – sadly, never worse than by some of the devoutly religious people I know who play at nicey nice images. (This isn’t true of all religious people. I’m not saying that. I’m just talking about my experience with some of them.)

I am so not about some fucking put on fake smile coupled with a programmed mantra about how I’ve got all the answers. But you know what? Need help? I’m hear to listen, at least. I can’t promise answers, but I care about people. Having a bad year? Come vent. Need a shoulder? No problem.

What I’m not here to do is make judgments.

Two years ago, I wasn’t watching The Wire. I wasn’t reading anything other than British police procedurals (and classics like Jane Eyre). I was staying in my comfort zone.

And then I started writing.

I had all these inhibitions. No sex. No swearing. Yeah, can you believe it? Just two measly years ago…

One of the best things about writing was that, in order to learn, I felt I needed to branch out more. I made a deliberate effort to explore new books. PI books. Hard-boiled. I had a method to my research, almost always going off author referrals from authors I admired. And it just grew from there.

And I’m so glad that I explored new terrain. Two years ago, a story like Fucked Again wasn’t in me. For one, the technical writing ability needed some refinement. Some serious, serious polish. Still does, in fact. Maybe I’ll whine about book edits tomorrow…

And for two, I didn’t have it in me to put myself into that kind of character’s head. I lacked the skill, the experience, the willingness to go there. Then I started reading Val McDermid and she taught me so much. Showed me how much I was limiting myself.

Now, where is all this coming from, you ask? Well, nitpicking over books.

I mean, we all have our likes and dislikes. We’re all more inclined to certain preferences. We have different interests.

But some of the reasons I’ve seen mentioned recently – reasons people give for not reading books – make me sad.

Part of me has that side that wants to please everyone, but then there’s the wee bit of reason in my head that knows that you can’t and that trying to do so will just make you feel like a fraud, while you hide parts of yourself from some people so they don’t get offended.

I mean, I don’t swear much around my church friends. That’s a respect thing. But it isn’t like I pretend I never swear. That’s what I mean by hiding. Someone said to me that they were sure all those gays ever thought about was sex. I was so mad I pointed out as a 35-year-old female, that’s all I ever thought about as well. I mean, the ignorance and prejudice…

I find most prejudices tend to be driven by fear. What we don’t know, or understand, we’re more intimidated by. If we don’t understand it, we can’t control it, and it might be a threat to us.

I suppose that’s why, for me, I can’t maintain a list of reasons I won’t read a book. There’s been a big discussion about this on a forum. No tattoos. No swearing. No designer clothes. No little animals being hurt. No computer hackers. No slender characters. No tall women. No serial killer books. No politics.

No no no no no.

It’s enough to make me cry, it reminds me of the years I spent under the legalistic thumb of some people.

In response to it all, I posted this:

Married, divorced, gay, straight, a drinker, a teetotaler, someone who swears continuously, tattoos, no tattoos, I don't care.

All that matters to me is that the character reads real, is believable, and engages me in such a way that I want to spend time with them.

16, 17 months ago, when I first read Simon Kernick's The Business of Dying, I felt so guilty for liking someone that was, well, wrong. But that’s the beauty of it – Simon created a character that did things that I would never normally condone, yet he made the protagonist real and sympathetic enough for me to want more of him. The follow-up, A Good Day To Die, is one of my all-time favourite reads. Ever.

We all, as readers, bring our personality, world views and tastes to the reading experience. Some of us can believe certain characters more easily than others.

The only thing I know for certain is that I won't make every reader happy. But with such a range of authors and books out there, isn't the great thing that there's something for everyone?

You know what? I honestly think that, a few years ago, I was afraid of what I could be if I didn’t stay in control. I could see a lot of things in me I didn’t like. Hatred. Resentment. Anger. I used to think I was such a good person, but the older I got, the more aware I became of my own shortcomings.

I was afraid that if I spent time around some people without those moral restraints, I might lose track of mine. I guess I still wanted everyone to fit into black or white boxes, to be “good” or “bad”. When I look back on my life, I think it’s because the people I thought of as good for many years turned out to be some of the most destructive forces in my life and they hurt me the worst. Wouldn’t it be nice if, upon meeting someone, you could see if they were listening to their good angel or bad angel, and know the kind of friend they would –or would not-be?

Life doesn’t work that way, and one of the things that makes a beautiful friendship so wonderful is that you’ve discovered a kindred spirit.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

If I judged people by what they wrote, I would have missed out on meeting some fantastic people. I also would have missed out on some fantastic books.

As much as I know the British police procedurals will always be a security blanket for me, my comfort zone, where I run to when things are rough and I need a book fix to go with my chocolate, I also know that there are so many books outside of that limited scope that have given me hours of reading pleasure.

But these long lists of ready-made reasons… Look, I’m not knocking procedural, technical frustrations that make a reader put down a book. Oh, sure, I notice them on TV shows all the time, but seldom do I stop watching.

For some reason, a lot of people seem to be more forgiving of TV than books.

And what makes me sad is that I think of this forum as a place where booklovers come together to talk about their passion – BOOKS!

Yet I’ve also seen people jumped on because they aren’t reading the “right” things that others like. Shouldn’t we just be happy people are reading? And maybe liking a “lesser” book in our eyes is just the beginning of a journey that gets them reading other great books we do personally enjoy?

I just don’t get it.

Personally, I’m thankful. For the journey that brought me to this point, where I could be open-minded enough to venture into new terrain, to discover wonderful people with whom I have common bonds, to discover new books that have expanded my reading scope.

And can I just say that I find it incredibly odd that some have posted complaints about not liking negative characters…but, er, well, I guess it’s okay for them to complain?

Don’t get me wrong. Everyone is entitled to their opinion. It’s just that, as a writer, I can’t hear a lot of this stuff. Because it’s persuaded me that there will always be someone who won’t like Lara, just because she has auburn hair, or Tymen because he wears a suit, or Jimmy because he’s scruffy…

If I stopped to think about it, I’d go mad. I’m just glad that the inhibitions I had a few years ago haven’t stopped me, because if I’d given in to my pet peeves and prejudices, I would have missed some fantastic books along the way.

Because some days, I like sleeping in a King Size bed alone and stretching out. And some days, I like sleeping on a harder bed, because my back is bothering me. And some days, curling up in a big, oversized chair, with a blanket and a book, is far better than sitting stiffly in one that's just my size.

I'm not Goldilocks. Not inclined to think one size fits all, or that it should fit all.

AND PLEASE READ THE POST BELOW, KILLER YEAR, AND SPREAD THE WORD.