by Gayle Bartos-Pool
Through the centuries man has written novels and other stories using that plan old Aristotle, born in 384BC, came up with and documented in The Poetics. He said there are 5 Basic Elements used in writing a story: Plot, Character, Dialogue, Setting, and the Meaning of the story. He was so right. As for the people who populate said story, many authors utilize the “Character Flaw” idea to give their main character some quirk that might trip them up while pursuing their goal.
Whether it’s a private detective with a drug problem (Sherlock Holmes), a gal who drinks too much (the woman in The Days of Wine and Roses), or even the kid who can’t tell the truth (The Boy Who Cried Wolf.), when the reader learns the character has this flaw and also learns what the goal is in the story and what the roadblocks are in trying to achieve that goal, there will be anxiety on the part of the reader to see if the hero can overcome his or her problem and succeed.
This method has been used for centuries and works, but there have been other ways to toss a curve to the hero just to see how he or she handles it. A blind main character (in the movie: Wait Until Dark) or a blind detective (the movie and book called exactly that: The Blind Detective) or a hero in a wheelchair (the TV show: Ironside) worked just fine in catching the bad guys.
A physical handicap can actually make the hero stronger. I’ve known real people who had severe health problems turn into some of the strongest people I have ever seen in my life. But a drug addict or an alcoholic isn’t exactly wearing a badge of courage. I’ve also known people who had those issues as a part of their character and who had no intention of getting rid of them. I probably wouldn’t turn to them in a crisis. In a story they might be the main character with what is known as a “fatal flaw” who solves the problem or reaches the final goal as he dies on the last page. That’s been done, but it’s a bit of a downer.
But there can be other ways to give the main character something to deal with besides thrusting negative points on him. In fact, some TV characters don’t really have major flaws, but some of their friends do. The main character in the series Magnum, P.I., and Jessica Fletcher in the TV show Murder, She Wrote were basically good people, but some of their acquaintances had problems. Usually those problems were thrust upon them by someone else, otherwise known as the villain, and the hero has to solve the case before the jail cell closes on their friend.
So, are we supposed to make our main characters flawed? I’ve read some best-selling books where the hero had flaws that were rather unpleasant and I only read one of their books. I didn’t find that trait a selling point. I often say that I want my main characters to be people I would invite to my house. They don’t have to be sickeningly sweet or holier-than-thou, but I would like to respect them.
But these heroes might have a friend with a major flaw and part of the story is to get the friend on the right track so they don’t die or end up in prison. You can even have the hero mention that he almost went down that same path until somebody straightened him out. My Johnny Casino character used drugs when he was a kid while he was growing up in the Mob. They were importing and selling those drugs until a local priest challenged him to a boxing match and whooped his little butt. Johnny never touched a drug again. This revelation in one of the stories let Johnny use himself as an example to help somebody else shake their dependency.
I’ve wrestled with the notion that the main character should have something wrong with him since that theme is prevalent in many books and movies, but I prefer my main character to have either overcome some minor flaw or never really had one in the first place. Most people I know aren’t one step away from the slammer or psycho ward, so I’m not stuffing my character in that camp. He can have doubts and reservations, but in the end his upbringing and persona got him where he is, so I’m not going to let him fall into a pit. And anyway, that’s what heroes are…heroes.
People with problems don’t usually go to people with their own troubles. They go to the guy or gal who made it through the gauntlet and survived. We learn from characters like that, so my heroes fight to keep on an even keel and get us all to shore.
Three days later Allan and I bid ahoj to Prague and boarded a train bound for Poland. After an overnight stop in Katowice, the largest city in the region known as Upper Silesia, we took a cab to the nearby city of Bytom, the hometown of my father and his entire family. Back then Upper Silesia was part of Germany, the city known as Beuthen. As I walked along the streets, I tried to picture what his life must have been like. I gazed at the people who passed, wondering if I’d see any signs of familiarity in their faces.
Entering into the first camp, with its ARBEIT MACHT FREI (“Work sets you free”) sign over the entrance gate, I wondered how I would react, or feel. I’m still not sure, to be honest, other than the eerie familiarity of what I heard and saw – from decades of studying photographs accompanied by written accounts, of documentaries and movies filmed on location, and stories I’d heard from survivors, including my father. For many, the trip was a history lesson. For me, it was akin to visiting the cemetery; I lost an estimated ninety members of my family there.
After a brief break, the tour continued to nearby Birkenau. Unlike Auschwitz, which to me felt small and claustrophobic, Birkenau is huge. You’ve seen it in many movies: a long low building with railroad tracks leading to a central tower, open at the bottom to allow trains to enter with their human cargo, like a gaping maw ready to devour all who arrive. Alongside and beyond the entrance, what seems like miles and miles of barbed wire fencing surrounds a huge open area interspersed with low barracks and guard towers. In the distance I could see different tour groups traversing the grounds, and for one brief moment I pictured them in the striped uniforms and hats of prisoners. 
Prior to abandoning the camp in January 1945, days ahead of the advancing Russian forces, the Nazis burned the meticulous records they’d kept of all who were brought to the camps and blew up the gas chambers. Only piles of rubble remain. Many, many piles. They left behind the prisoners too weak to continue; the rest (including my father) went on a forced march from one concentration camp to the next, always trying to stay ahead of the Russians, whom they rightfully feared more than the other Allies. It took several more months until my father was liberated, but at least the Americans freed him. Had he stayed behind in Auschwitz, he would have lived the rest of his life under the thumb of the Soviets. After what I saw in Bytom, I’m grateful he had the strength to wait.
The Writers in Residence 
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