Notes on “Likability”

(and what writers can learn from Bravo shows)

“Unlikable” is probably my least favorite of all the writing buzzwords. A finicky label, it gets applied to characters—especially female characters—almost indiscriminately, and almost always as a criticism. Here is a sampling of reasons I have heard characters called unlikable:

• too nice 

• too aggressive 

• too ambitious 

• too meek / passive

• she swears / she drinks / she sleeps around — gross!

• ugh, she’s too good, so boring

• she’s too pretty / smart / successful (not relatable)

When you look at it like this, it becomes clear that the concept of likability is contradictory. It’s a way to dismiss a book you don't like while placing blame on its main character. Which is wild, if you think about it. (I mean, I personally don’t go for science fiction and fantasy, but I would never try to blame that on Feyre Acheron or Arya Stark. I just don’t pick up those books. I say, “it’s not my thing,” and I move on.)

The likability discourse reminds me America Ferrarra’s soliloquy in the Barbie movie (that we should all recite into the mirror every morning):

What she’s saying, y’all, is that it’s a trap. There’s no way to get it right.

I mean, you could try to write a likable character. She would be pretty but not too pretty, smart but not too smart; she would be careful with her words and take care of the people around her; she would be nice to everyone. And she would fall flat. Someone out there in the wilds of Goodreads will say she’s too “perfect,” too unrealistic—and most likely, that Goodreads critic will be right.

In order to be well-rounded, to be real, your characters need to be messy and layered and flawed, like all human beings. What those flaws are are up to you, the author, just as the choice to read about the flaws you’ve chosen is up to the reader. 

preach.

When the first Real Housewives franchise came out in 2006, I actively avoided it. The idea that I would be interested in a group of bleach blonde, nouveau-riche California moms and divorcees going to tacky parties in gated communities was beyond absurd. Who could support this dross? 

A few years later, though, a new group of middle-aged ladies entered the scene: the New York Housewives. They were more intriguing to me, as I was living in NYC at the time, working at an Upper East Side gallery, the same neighborhood as most of RHONY. (My gallery was 10 blocks from Sonia’s townhouse and even closer to the old T-Bar, where Ramona cried drunkenly about wanting someone to hold her). What’s more, the clientele I dealt with at the gallery was an awful lot like the ladies I saw on Bravo. I dipped in a toe. I got hooked. 

Of course, all the housewives are very unlikable. Superficial, egotistical, completely out of touch with reality. But what I didn’t understand before watching was that their unlikability— their absurdity—was the whole point of the show. It was, and is, comedy gold.

Now I am an outspoken Bravo fan. I watch the Housewives because I think it is the funniest thing on television. I love watching them drink too much and fight about stupid shit. I love the tension and potential for disaster in every sprinter van. The trips, the costume parties, the outrageousness. They really lean into their unlikability, and it pays off.

oh, Ramona…

There are a million ways to be flawed, just as there are a million different stories. It is impossible to write a perfect character for every reader. Just write the character you want to read yourself, and understand that being disliked can actually serve your characters. Go big.

Lisa gets it! thank you, Lisa!