…and the different emotions and point of view that compelling writing may hopefully illuminate for the consumer.

I live in New York City. I take public transportation. I’ve had more colorful and interesting experiences taking the public transit system here than I did back in Pittsburgh (which was technically my first major solo encounter with public transit), but none of them have lived up to the stereotypical horror stories I heard growing up in the suburbs. Some of my experiences here have been delightfully strange (subway dance routines being the favorite) and some have been plain old creepy (use your imagination, I’m sure it’s close). That’s fine. Sometimes I overhear arguments (always fun!) or one-sided very loud phone conversations (always curiosity-prickling).

But what bothers me — that which makes this a rant — is when I overhear someone’s blatant ignorance, prejudice, misogyny, homophobia, or… well. When people are being offensive (and not quiet about it!), I get annoyed, but when they’re being offensive as a direct result of miseducation, misunderstanding, or a (voiced!) unwillingness to learn… *grumble* I get very mad. Seeing and hearing this kind of thing on TV, on the Internet — that’s expected. But on the bus?

Today it was homophobic in nature. I overheard two teenagers (tenth grade by my guess) talking about being gay in the military and what “being gay” is, by definition, and then how that definition (involving a comparison to a woman) correlated to a gay person’s inability to be an ineffective soldier. (GRRRRR.) One actually asked the other to define “gay” because he didn’t really get what it was. The other teen’s response was so offensive, so misinformed, so casually homophobically ignorant and… I can’t even describe the way it made me feel. As if I’d been punched in the gut, maybe. I’ve heard stories of homophobia, seen blatant homophobia and talked with friends and peers who’ve experienced it first-hand, but never before has it hit me so hard. I’m straight, but that doesn’t change the way it makes me feel. I hated this today. What made this worse was that the teen finished his definition by saying, “That’s what I think it is. I’m pretty sure, like, that’s it.” That actually made me almost turn around and say something — and these were very scary-looking teenagers! (I am easily intimidated) — because I couldn’t believe what he’d just said was, apparently to him, speculation. Loud, ignorant, offensive speculation.

I think before today I might have been a little mistaken in my own assumptions about the prevalence of this kind of thing in the world. I knew it exists, but I didn’t think that knowledge applied to my little corner of the world. Knowing a thing exists outside of my own sphere of experience and experiencing it are two different things, and it took getting my gut metaphorically punched today to remind me of that. Things like this happen every day across the world, and those comments aren’t only about sexual orientation. That ignorance doesn’t only occur in people under the age of 18.

I’ve been told this. Over and over. Statistics, news stories, vague accounts. But I’ve never had a gut-level reaction about casual, callous homophobia/ignorance through any of those “telling” experiences in real life. The only experience I can correlate this with is, honestly, something I read. Someone else’s evocatively-written first-hand account was the closest I’d come before today to feeling that same emotion — and I think that says something, oddly, about the power and necessity of art, of good writing, of fiction and brilliant narrative non-fiction. It has the power to convey profound truths without us having to experience them for ourselves. Today, I did, and that comparison has really hit me hard. That’s what good writing can do.

Good writing has the ability to make us feel things we may not otherwise be in a position to feel, and because of that we are fuller, richer human beings. That old adage, show don’t tell: that’s the beauty of good writing.

Today reminded me, in a very strange and unexpected way, why I write fiction, why I write fantasy; why I consume books and watch movies.

I haven’t experienced a lot of things first hand. In some cases, I may never experience certain things — going to the moon, taking core samples from the icy crust of Antarctica’s Lake Vostok — and for those things I tend to depend on fiction to give me the sense of that realism. To educate me by illustrative, gut-wrenching example. I look to movies like The Hurt Locker to make me feel what it’s like to be under pressure as a bomb specialist in Iraq in 2004. (A recent rental; it’s been on my mind since.) Films like Slumdog Millionaire (which I know surprised a lot of people I know) have an effect when they show you a world you’ve never seen — whether because of lack of experience, travel, or simple knowledge — and by showing you that glimpse, they can affect change. (I’m one of those believers that a change of mind, of heart, can later have a profound impact on the world. Call me an optimist if you must, but I believe that.)

To me, almost more than any other genre, fantasy can’t lose that sense of human connection, the base-level emotions of humanity that bring us together and drive us apart. (Though I’m sure this can apply to science fiction and any other genre in which the world has the capability of being more important than its people.) Fantasy is, like any good fiction, ultimately a mirror of our reality. When I read it, when I write it, I can explore other cultures, worlds, and characters. People I’ll never meet. But they can have a profound influence on the way I view others and the way I view the world. I said earlier today (in a very different context!) that the best fantasy story is one that uses the “genre” to illuminate the differences, possibilities, and promise that exist in our world but by seeing them in a fantastic context they stand out all the more starkly for it. It’s the emotional, “show” connection that gives fantasy, fiction, narrative non-fiction — all good writing, in a sense — its power.

(Okay, this also may be Battlestar Galactica influenced — I’m on Season 2 now, bear with me — and how humanity- and emotional-centric that “science fiction” show is — as it should be.)

No, I’m not going to turn today’s experience into fiction. (A blog entry will do, ha.) I’d be the first person to tell you that I hate preachy books. Doesn’t mean I can’t take that emotion I felt today and work with it, though.

Fiction, at its best, helps to make us feel things our own first hand experience may prevent us from feeling, or to illuminate those things we see every day and don’t appreciate — the list goes on. My take away from today is that as a writer I have the power to show by example and sometimes, in my sheltered little world of a computer screen and daily habits, I need to be reminded that I don’t know everything feels, but what I know, I can share. In turn, I can learn from others.

Maybe one of those teens will see a compelling movie or read an engrossing book — maybe? — that will teach them something, illuminate what they don’t understand. Maybe someone will tell them a compelling story that will get them to see a different point of view. See — because understanding can’t be forced. But seeing is the first crucial step. That is, in essence, what compelling stories ought to do. I hope one day they encounter a story like that.