The Problem With Pity: 4 Rules for Writing Characters With Specific Conditions
Author Martha Conway shares her four rules for writing characters with specific conditions and explores the problem with pity.
When I was a year-and-a-half old, my sister Beth was born with brain damage that had begun in utero. The day after her birth she was diagnosed with hydrocephalus—water on her brain that was not able to drain—and this, too, kept her brain from developing properly. She underwent an operation when she was less than a month old, then another one before she was a year old. In all, she had 10 operations before she was 10.
Beth passed away in 2021 at the age of 57, and she had a full, rich life. She had echolalia and was autistic, and her communication was more coded than direct. She could not walk, and she had limited use of her hands. Although she could hold a fork and use a couple of fingers to sound out notes on the piano, she couldn’t use a pen or do anything that required fine motor skills.
I’ve now written two novels with Beth as a partial model for a character. Although neither character had brain damage, one character had a mild form of autism and one was born without a right hand. I didn’t plan to use elements of my sister’s life as a writer, but once these characters emerged I thought long and hard about the best way to portray a character with these specific conditions.
And one of the things I’ve thought a lot about is pity. Growing up, I often had the experience of receiving pity in public from a stranger, who thought they were being kind by coming up to us to say how wonderful it was that we cared for Beth ourselves instead of moving her into a special home. But these encounters were embarrassing and, frankly, unkind to Beth. It had the effect of making me even more aware of the difference between our family and others, when we were just out in the world taking a walk or having a meal in a restaurant. I didn’t want these strangers’ pity, but I could have used their parking spot, or their help opening the door. Many people did help with doors, I should say.
When I was writing scenes about Sabine, the 17-year old character who was born with one short arm in my novel We Meet Apart, I did not want to evoke pity in the reader—rather the opposite. But I also did not want to gloss over her condition. Here are some of the rules I followed for myself.
1. When the scene is hot, write cold.
This is a well-known rule used by writers, usually meant for scenes portraying extreme emotions, but it is also useful when writing about a physical difficulty. Show how a character puts on a sweater using only one hand. Slow down and take it step by step. Be as detailed as possible. (You can always tighten the description later.) Any emotions, like frustration, will be there under the surface—they need not be called out specifically.
2. Don’t avoid other characters’ reactions.
Use them. Some might laugh at the character, or say something cruel. Some might ask obvious questions, or give unsolicited advice. And there will always, in my opinion, be at least one character who “gets it”—who doesn’t give unwanted help or advice, and is simply an ally or friend.
3. Play with reader expectations.
Your character may feel sorry for themselves at times—or maybe they don’t. They might be patient with other characters’ reactions to their condition, or they might not be. Sabine, at 17, is extremely tired of people asking, “What happened to your hand?” It makes her grumpy. But maybe another character would feel angry, or sarcastic, or generous. And in fact, Sabine sometimes has those reactions as well. There are always many possible emotional reactions any character might have—as a writer, don’t limit yourself. And especially don’t limit yourself to what you think your audience expects.
Side note: How Sabine reacts to how another character commenting on her short arm was for me a great way to show (not tell) how she felt about that person.
4. The condition is not the character: dig deep.
This is obvious, but it needs to be said. Create a complex character with needs and desires, bad habits, good impulses, and a backstory that is not all about their physical condition. In some stories, a character’s physical condition is the driving force of the plot. In mine, their condition is something that crops up occasionally, for one reason or another, throughout the story. It’s another character trait, although of course more impactful in their daily lives than the color of their eyes or hair.
I can only imagine what life must have felt like for Beth, and I want to honor her in my imagination. I’ve written about many things that, when starting out, I knew nothing about: early jazz music; life on a riverboat theatre; and medical practices in the Civil War era. For me, part of the joy of writing is to explore and to learn. And I do so with caution, with care, and with respect.
Check out Martha Conway's We Meet Apart here:
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