Do you like peaches? Of course you do—just look at you. So you’ve probably sliced into a plump, juicy, delicious-looking peach only to have your knife meet no resistance in the centre. The pit hiding inside was already rotten, split apart, and leaking its cyanide into otherwise succulent peach flesh. This is the parallel that has been stuck in my mind when thinking about how characters (and, frankly, a lot of real people too) self-conceptualize, and how we measure the goodness of our natures.
We have the unfortunate privilege of being the only ones to occupy our personal skins and brains, and, as such, may mistakenly think ourselves experts on our natures. After all, who knows you better: your friends, who claim your kindness, generosity, and understanding speak to the quality of your character; or you, who knows that all of that is just peach flesh and that inside hides a rotten and toxic pit waiting to poison the unsuspecting fool who bites too deeply.
Not the villain with a heart of gold, but the hero with a heart of mould. Not someone whose actions will eventually be outweighed by their inherent goodness, but someone who will never be good enough or do good enough to smother the creeping decay.
But someone who still tries. Someone who, despite the foul core that they know lurks inside, and despite knowing it would be enough to repulse anyone who bit too deeply, still lets people bite. Because even if they aren’t good, the world and the people in it are—so good that they still deserve to taste something sweet. They deserve the taste of peaches.
Maybe someone will bite deeply enough to prove that the pit was whole all along.
Anyways, that’s why I like writing romance and, in no way, project onto my characters. Don’t perceive me; it’s against the law.
Until next time, travellers,
Gael
PS. Is it just me, or has the villain with a heart of gold archetype been co-opted by a brand of Gen X’er with too much access to Facebook and deep-fried memes, and no access to contact with their adult children? Probably nothing.
