When writers want to make an otherwise perfect female character more relatable, they give her one flaw: clumsiness. I see what they’re thinking: “Yes, let’s make her a little klutzy so that the female readers will love her and the male readers would wish she would stumble and fall right into their arms.”
Take for example Anna in the Disney movie “Frozen.” Anna’s clumsiness makes her special amongst the otherwise graceful Disney Princesses. In one scene she slips and is rescued by Prince Hans after which they bond and he even asks her to marry her. See? Being clumsy paid off!
I must admit I’m surprised. No one in their right mind can relate to a clumsy person. On the contrary, in cartoons and comedies, when someone slips on a banana skin and falls, everyone is laughing and thinking: “Thank God, I’m not this person.”
But I am. I am that person.
And the truth is that no one loves a klutz. No one. Clumsiness isn’t something you can laugh at. It’s not a trait that makes me more likeable. It’s something I’m struggling with on a daily basis.
Clumsiness is when you stand over the broken pieces of your newest favourite mug. It fell but you know it didn’t. You dropped it, just like you dropped its too many predecessors. You didn’t do it on purpose but it happened anyway.
Clumsiness means having cuts on your hands. Even as I write this, I have two little wounds on my finger because I’ve again hurt myself with a knife. It’s not the first one and it won’t be the last.
Clumsiness means the necessity of having to coin the term “Olga-proofing”- baby proofing is nothing compared to what had to be done so I can actually live in a house.
Clumsiness is when you try to pick up something… but need at least 5 attempts to succeed.
It’s bumping into furniture and door frames at more than appropriate frequencies. It’s when you walk into a room, objects mysteriously fall onto the floor.
It’s having to control each and every single little movement you make or deal with the messy consequences. It’s exhausting and energy consuming. And things still fall and messes happen wherever you go.
While fetching a glass you have to concentrate and consciously tell yourself to lift your hand, take that glass in your hand (too much pressure and the glass will break, too little pressure and the glass will slip from your fingers and fall on the floor, and break). Repeat with everything you do.
When standing up in a crowded space like a restaurant, you need to always be conscious of people around you or you’ll end up injuring them with your elbows, or being injured yourself.
You’re always in the way of others. It’s not rude. It’s not even done willingly. But you can’t help it. You simply have no sense of direction and no sense of your body’s position in space.
People are always commenting about plates and glasses shattering when you come to visit. They don’t mean it in a bad way, they just notice that when you try to help in the kitchen, they lose plates.
You actually yell at your kids so that they get out of your way. It’s not because you actually hate them. It’s because you don’t want to step on them and this is actually a very real threat.
You get angry over the littlest things because you spend your day trying not to drop things and end up dropping them anyway.
You’re not being rude to your in-laws when you tell them in sharp tones that you need to concentrate on the very complex task that is pouring tea and don’t want to be interrupted. You really have to concentrate hard on the tea-pouring lest you burn yourself or others.
You get frustrated like hell because your body doesn’t function properly like a normal body. Because people don’t believe that you’re clumsy. They think you’re too lazy or not trying hard enough.
So, dear writers, if you’re thinking about your next female protagonist and how to make her more likeable, please remember this: the look of frustration I carry on my face a lot of the time is not cute. My angry frown is not sexy or adorable. Give her another flaw if you must or make her beautiful, graceful and otherwise perfect. I don’t mind really. Identification is not something I’m looking for in literature. In fact, one of the many reasons I read is because I want to forget I’m so clumsy. So please, don’t remind me.