It’s pretty common knowledge that I’m an advocate for
diversity in fiction. Gender, sexuality, ethnicity. Those are where I’ve
managed to, I think, do something with my books. I’ve actively tried to include
people from diverse backgrounds in those areas, and I have intentions to
include other kinds of diversity when I feel I can do justice to the
experience. That includes religion and, more cogent to this post,
neurodiversity. People with bipolar disorder, or dissociative identity, or on
the autism spectrum. Which is what I want to talk about, but we’ll see about
that very shortly.
I think the best way you can include diversity isn’t to make
it overt. Not that there are no stories to be told in regards to all that.
There are important stories with a very intense connection to the diversity
they hold, and they need to be told. They need to be told with respect and
knowledge and a damned good understanding of how fiction works, and they will
be. But for me, the things I deal with and the way I tend to deal with them, I
do my best to make the diversity less in your face. It doesn’t always work out
that way, of course. I have characters who are a bit more “right there” with
how they’re different.
I was thinking about diversity today, looking at which works
I loved that really nailed it. And one came immediately to mind. One that made
quite a stir in its time, is still much loved and respected among readers (And
film goers, in that format.): Stephen Chbosky’s The Perks of Being a
Wallflower.
Now, you might thing I’m talking about Patrick, who’s gay.
But, as much fun as Patrick is, and as much as I love his story and his
characterization, I would hardly call him subtle or understated. His plot is
very much focused on how he’s gay and people are not okay with that. Super
heart-wrenching for me personally, for hopefully obvious reasons, but not what
I’m talking about.
I’m talking about Charlie, the main character/narrator. He’s
a perfect example of neurodiversity done extremely
well, in my opinion. Now, it’s not that it’s never brought up (Obligatory
spoiler warning: turn back now if you want to burst into tears reading this
book like I did.). Charlie was known to be suicidal, and that does come back
around. He even medicates for it.
But that’s not the beautifully subtle part of his character
that works so damn well. Now, I’m not a psychologist, but I think there are two
very possible options, both of which have strong evidence. What matters most
isn’t the exact definition of how Charlie differed from what’s considered
average, but the fact that he did, we
readers knew it, and we felt for him and loved him anyway. But for matters of
clarification, I’m going to lay down two theories: Charlie was either on the
autism spectrum, or he was suffering from PTSD from (More spoilers!!) being
molested by his aunt as a child… and/or her sudden death that he blames himself
for. Most likely and instead of or, if you ask me.
Charlie is emotional over relatively small things. He’s
prone to depressive episodes, blind rages, violence. He doesn’t appear to know
his own strength. He’s socially awkward, to the point of having only one
friend, and for a while none. And so many smaller things that would be
difficult to catalog. It's not clear cut to be labeled, especially when I'm not a psychologist in any sense. But they are signs of something other than what we consider baseline neural activity.
And that got me thinking about diversity, and a way things
can be handled. We don’t make them a large spectacle, because sometimes that
isn’t the best way to make an impact. Sure, sometimes it is, but not always. As a writer or a reader, you make that decision for yourself. But for me, I like to see it handled gently.
So I’m curious: what books do you enjoy that display subtle
diversity? Let me know in the comments: always looking for good book
recommendations, after all.
Voss
