We writers have God-like powers. We create universes, invent people, then control them like pawns. We can force them into situations in which no real person would ever find herself. We can make them do things that are completely bizarre.

I say we can do this. But that doesn’t mean we should. I’ve been thinking about this a lot because I recently read a book where the author played God, much to the detriment of the story. Normally, I don’t critique books on this blog as a professional courtesy to my fellow writers. And I’ll refrain from in-depth criticism in this case as well. But I’m making an exception to my normal rule because the writer is of such stature that I’m sure he can take it.

The writer in question is Jonathan Lethem, who is very worth reading for whole hosts of reasons. But I think he got something very wrong in Chronic City and its something that has become a habit in fiction these days, particularly in so-called literary fiction. It’s a tendency to merely assert that something happens no matter how improbable or–and this is the critical point–inauthentic. When you are unconstrained by the demands and limitations of convincing and authentic humanity, you can have your characters do anything, say anything, believe anything at all. But is this a good thing? I think not.

There be SPOILERS BELOW!

In Chronic City, we are asked to believe that all of New York City has been successfully conned by an official story about a gigantic tiger that is swallowing whole buildings. Later, in the climax of the story, we’re asked to believe that the protagonist either didn’t know that he’d been carrying on a make believe love affair with a dead astronaut or that he didn’t care. I think Lethem is playing with some interesting ideas here–the blurred line between the idea of New York City and the actual place; the creep of the virtual into our every day lives. And the book is landmined with some devastating insights about modern life. As a collection of insights it’s well worth reading. But I didn’t believe in the humanity of any of the characters. There were elements of true humanity sprinkled throughout, but he too often sacrificed believable emotion for the exigencies of a story that was largely allegorical. I wanted allegory and authentic humanity and I think he’s writer enough to give us both. But, like a lot of writers, he doesn’t.

Neither does Salman Rushdie, by the way. And I wonder if, in their ambition, both of these writers have substituted a kind of blind confidence for the tug and pull of true characterization. Compare them to writers like Meg Rosoff or Cintra Wilson (two of my favorites). Their work bleeds with true humanity, not an inauthentic moment to be found. I can picture them battling with their characters, trying to force them to go one way (to serve a plot outline perhaps) only to have them refuse and go off in another direction. Or compare someone like E.M. Forster to Jane Austen. Both great writers for sure. But whereas Forster will often sacrifice belieavable character for thematic consistency, Jane Austen is beholden to the demands of real humanity.

As a writer, I am always beholden to those demands. I also write plot-heavy high-concept stories. I am, in short, perpetually pulled in two different directions. But I never will my characters to do something they wouldn’t authentically do. And, although the stories themselves may be totally fanciful, my hope is that you could pluck out any single character, plop him into the real world, and totally believe in his humanity. If you couldn’t, then I’d consider the book a failure. That doesn’t make me a God, but then I’ve been an atheist for a long time.