No Offence Feyre Sorrengail

But why are all the romantasy female protagonists the same? Am I (reader) the problem: a ho(peless romantic) looking for a self-insert through which to drool over an equally bland yet angsty and hot MMC. Or am I (writer) the problem?

Life imitates art as my female protagonist and her author exist as oxymorons: perfectly imperfect characters. Or at least, that’s the goal. It’s the age in which the artist sells themselves as well as their art. And the audience demands authenticity. “Authenticity”: defined by Oxford Languages as the quality of being authentic. A definition as enchanting and enriching as the model for authenticity with which I am so intimately familiar. Every form of media at my fingertips is oversaturated with authenticity. Creators have mastered it. It’s perfection imperfection. It’s a foggy lens that has fused itself to my eyes. When I look within, I see anyone and everyone. And so my protagonist, borne from me, is anyone and everyone. She can’t animate beyond consonants and vowels because my own blurry image isn’t accessible to me beyond pixels. I must extricate myself from what is authentic to find the artist. What horrors lie beyond perfect imperfection? If I can overcome it, then perhaps I can extricate myself from my protagonist. To find someone. Perhaps she’s imperfectly imperfect too.