How “Lady Bird” inspires me to keep writing “unlikable” semi-autobiographical characters

(Note: Spoiler-wise, I don’t think there’s anything here that isn’t referenced in a trailer or review of Lady Bird. Let me know if this ends up not being the case and I will happily edit the post.)

I’ve written five novels, three of which feature high school-age girls navigating life, the inevitability of change, and the tumults of coming of age. The first time I workshopped a few chapters of one of them, my peers’ main feedback was that they didn’t like my protagonist. She was realistic, they said, but also annoying, uncaring, and most of all, “unlikable.” Inevitably, I’d reveal that this character was semi-autobiographical, based on myself in high school, and half my workshop would stare blankly, and at least one person would apologize.

This comment didn’t really bother me, all things considered. I didn’t need the apology. I know that in high school, especially, I could come off as possessing any of these three characteristics. This criticism wasn’t reflective of me now, but more likely the way I wrote her. However, as I’ve recently learned, a big reason for not being able to write unlikable yet relatable characters to the standard I wanted was that I’m not Greta Gerwig, the writer-director of Lady Bird.

In trying to cram all the good things I’d like to say about this film into a spoiler-free paragraph that will provide context for what I’m about to discuss, here’s what I’ve got: It’s incredibly well-written, but not forced. There’s no “how do you do, fellow kids?” about it; the teenagers sound like teenagers. It’s fast-paced, but each scene feels entirely fleshed out and also necessary, even the ones that are only a few seconds long. The characters and settings and storylines alike are given the right amount of attention for the story that’s being told.

Music⚡️Band 4 lyfe.

My main impression, though, was something I was instantly convinced of while watching for the first time, that I ever-so-eloquently put into words upon exiting the theater: Gosh, this is so real.

And the basic “real”-ness of Lady Bird is no coincidence. Reading about Gerwig, I learned about the similarities she shares with the titular character: they both grew up in Sacramento with a nurse for a mother, they both went to all-girls Catholic high schools, they both attended college in New York City. And then I read this quote of hers in a Rolling Stone article about the film:

“Writing this character was an exploration of all these things I didn’t have access to or I couldn’t be. In that way, it almost felt like this fairy-tale invention of a deeply flawed heroine, but one who I admire. I think she shows courage and a lot of character even when she’s flailing.”

Reading this is when it clicked: Lady Bird is the young-adult novel—and more importantly, the protagonist—that I’ve always wanted to write.

Can I also say that it’s the first time EVER that a film protagonist has shared my name and I haven’t recoiled in horror by the end?

I don’t exactly have escapism fantasies of returning to my senior year of high school. But in all of my novel-length works that feature teenagers, I’ve based characters, places, and even conversations on my own experiences. For example, as a 17-year-old, I didn’t think that I could get into a college in New York City, so I sent a character to a small liberal arts college in Vermont that mirrors where I first ended up, Gonzaga University. If I write a best friend character, she’s almost certainly based on one or two of my actual closest friends from that time—that way, I can draw upon our most naïve conversations, our most trivial arguments, and our overall friendship dynamic (how often did we see each other? were we huggers? did we mostly hang out right after school or plan activities for the weekend? and so on).

And it’s not that I can’t write “original” characters or scenarios. In fact, seemingly like Gerwig, I use my own experiences to set the tone for my stories, whether it’s a small town like the one I grew up in or a “borrowed” character or two, before introducing new ideas. To me, this kind of freedom isn’t restricted by the limitations of place or people I’ve set, but is in fact made wider by my extensive knowledge of the universe I’ve established. Being able to draw from my own life in order to tweak a scene or a line of dialogue and make it more authentic is a fantastic privilege.

I can’t describe well enough how empowered I felt after each time I saw Lady Bird. Here’s a writer-director who’s come up with a character, and a mother-daughter duo, who cycle between BFF-style bonding and familial bickering in the way that only mothers and daughters can, but who, more than that, are allowed to be as “unlikable” as they want. My favorite part is that what Gerwig has accomplished with Lady Bird and her mother has spurred reactions online ranging from enthusiastic relatability to abject annoyance. Which, not to compare the execution but rather the basic content, is pretty much how my own foray into the young adult genre has gone. My main shortcoming, though, is not letting my characters know well enough that they can be wholly unapologetic about their real-life qualities. Just because it’s fiction doesn’t mean it has to be fake.

Worth it.

Finally, I’d like to talk about the reason I’ve seen Lady Bird five times in the theater (as evidenced by the above photo). And best way (or at least, the way I’ve chosen) to do this is to list my general thoughts going into each viewing:

  • 1: My sister said I’d like this. I’m a big fan of Saoirse Ronan. It got good reviews. Why not?
  • 2: My husband MUST see this movie, and I enjoyed it so I won’t mind seeing it a second time.
  • 3: I’ve decided I want to write something about this lovely, lovely movie. But what? (Here’s where I realize that it’s very much like a young adult novel.)
  • 4: No, seriously, what? (Worth mentioning: this is the first viewing where I cried almost all the way through. I knew all the jokes and the emotional moments and what happened and whose performances would affect me, and it all hit me at once.)
  • 5: Here’s what I want to write about. Here’s how I want to view the film this time around; what I want to get out of it. And look, it’s only $6.

A fifth viewing may have solidified the topic I’ve chosen for this particular writing, but it still only scratches the surface of my attempt to learn more about and begin to emulate everything I love about this film, this script. I want to nail Lady Bird’s voice in my own characters. I want to learn to balance the unlikability of teenage characters with their (nostalgic) relatability. I want to balance how high schoolers present themselves with how they think, how the things that they never tell anyone influence how they see the world. I want to be able to write a mother-daughter relationship that takes the inherent volatility, love, and “like” and makes it feel effortlessly real.

It’s always been somewhat therapeutic for me to almost “rewrite” my teenage years through my characters, whether it’s working out a part of my personality that I was never able to figure out then by finally putting it into words, or so pettily finally getting to say what I wanted to say in a ten-year-old argument with a friend that hasn’t left my memories. But now, thanks to Lady Bird, I have a new wish for my future as a writer: I hope that I can develop the confidence and the skill to have my own characters reach out to others in the way that Lady Bird‘s have to me. As long as they’re well-written, then the more unlikable, the better.


All Lady Bird screencaps come from the trailer, which can be found here.

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So Does Everybody Else, Only Not So Much

I feel dumb.

This train of thought began as I pondered how my shyness affects others.  If I relegate myself to one-word answers when I communicate with others, then these people do not want to talk to me anymore.  I might do this for a simple reason, i.e. because I’m sad, but a lot of of the time I really have nothing to say.  I don’t hate the person I’m talking to, nor do I not appreciate their company, I just don’t feel comfortable speaking more than a few words at a time.  I’m a quiet, shy person, and unfortunately this all too often speaks for itself, telling others things about me that I don’t want to expose.  I don’t hate others just because I don’t talk to them, but this is apparently what my silence conveys.  The human race is inherently talkative and I am not.  The world defines my character based on what others perceive I should be because I do not take it upon myself to do so.  I am not my own person, I am someone else’s person to create, modify, destroy.  My character is perpetually changing into the result of others’ criticism and skeptical conclusions.  I am the pre-assigned monosyllabic word to others’ self-written novels describing their person.  I do not live my own life, I am a small piece of someone else’s.

I am but an extra in the eccentric script of another’s tumultuous life.  My presence does not help or hinder the protagonist, but rather provides them with the significance they desire and the knowledge that they are a three-dimensional character in a meaningful place.  Fate gives it this significance but the free will of others drives it.  It is because I am in this position that I am not permitted to be the protagonist of my own life.  People will continue to write my story for me and I will sit back and allow it.

At least, this is how I feel it happens now.  This is how others tell me it happens through their actions and their scathing perceptions of me without knowing me.  This is, I fear, how it will continue.  I don’t feel ready enough to change and show the world that I may take control of my life.  In the journey that is life, it appears that I am already irreversibly lost.  My words will never emerge from the sea of the outspoken.  I will drown in their success and no one will ever see me again.  Though, all facts considered, it does not seem that anyone ever did.

CXLIII

I found it kind of uncanny how Shakespeare’s “Sonnet 143” is about lost love, and how in some wacky form of online-speak, “143” translates to the number of letters in each of the words of “I love you.” I could go on for a while analyzing WHY I think Shakespeare chose that particular sonnet to be number 143, but it would eventually become redundant and I’d ultimately come to the conclusion that Shakespeare probably did not write in online-speak, and therefore the sonnet number probably has nothing to do with the sonnet itself. Why couldn’t he have been more creative, at least, and titled his sonnets? It is kind of a bother comparing number 57 to number 33, figuring that 57 minus 33 is 24, and digging up the underlying meaning behind the factors of 24 as they relate to the former. (Fifty-seven is a prime number, isn’t it? Curse you, Alderson.)

(If Douglas Adams had the chance to explore Shakespeare’s sonnets, and if his ideas were immediately regarded as true, then complex love would be the answer to everything, and Shakespeare’s odd train of thought would be interpreted and published into a book of religious law.)

(Is “religious law” an oxymoron? )

Enough of my rants that only make sense in my head. Today I came into Stat to find that the group test was postponed until tomorrow because of Ms. Rivara’s scheduling mishap (she thought we were third period? what?).

MANNY’S BACK!  We had an enlightening conversation about how naïve her AP classes are this year.  ‘Twas all in good fun.

And in Bio we had an unexpected group test (that I believe we failed miserably). Luckily you’d only get points on it if your group got the highest score in the class. Mr. Neville came over and “helped” our group; in actuality, he confused us even more and caused us to miss more questions that we would have already. Damn him and his policy on fairness (or lack thereof). Band was uneventful. Civics was uneventful. I have ranted enough about English. And here I am, blogging (I hate Microsoft, “blogging” is so a word) about things I’d rather forget. Maybe I will listen some concert band music that I only wish we would be able to play. I wonder how many people will quit next year because Barb’s “twenty-five person wonder band” isn’t up to scratch.

I need to conclude this somehow. Conclusion.

You Can be a Republican, I’m a Genocrat

I recently discovered that Ogden Nash is somewhat of a sav.  His style of poetry is not unlike Billy Collins’; this must be why I like it so much.  It’s humorous and pointless, down-to-earth and completely random.  If not for Tim Lincecum, I’d be in love all over again.

This week has been insane.  Monday was better than most Mondays, I think… I don’t remember exactly why, but I don’t recall feeling lethargic or crabby after school.  The boys had water polo on Tuesday, so the girls’ team (a.k.a. me, Eva, Danielle, and Shirley) went to go support them and such.  Wednesday and Thursday we got to play (we lost 8-0 on Wednesday); it was not terrible, nor a waste of time.

I’m struggling my way through the arrangement of Schindler’s List that I have for piano — it is also not terrible, nor a waste of time.

No football tonight; maybe I’ll do homework instead.  A terrible waste of time if I ever saw one.