subscribeA rant about the power of compelling writing.
Tuesday February 9, 2010
…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.
FedEx, you disappoint me.
Thursday April 16, 2009
So the laptop/present was supposed to arrive yesterday. The FedEx man came, rang the broken buzzer, then left a note on the door when I didn’t answer. Except I was home and didn’t hear the buzzer because the entire buzzer system in the building is broken. So I did not get the laptop. I was more upset than I really should have been (I’d built it up so much!) but really — really, FedEx. This building has a doorman, but he’s a part-time doorman who is on duty after 2:3opm weekdays. So naturally the FedEx man came at noon, two hours before the doorman actually gets here. When I told the doorman that, he shook his head with incredulity and comisserated with me about it all. The FedEx man, unlike the UPS man, doesn’t seem to know to come in the afternoon instead of the morning.
Needless to say, I was very unhappy.
I do this, though: I build things up in my head, make them so important, so necessary, that when my expectations fall through I get crushed far more than I should. It’s something I do about pretty much everything. I make plans based on educated guesses, assumptions, hopes, and when something random happens, when bad luck strikes, I really react badly. I need to be more flexible; I need to stop freaking out, stop overexaggerating things. I mean, this was a really huge disappointment but I shouldn’t have made it out to be that bad. The original delivery date was supposed to be the 29th! And even Dell said they thought it’d arrive on the 16th; it was just the overambitious FedEx tracking system that told me to expect it yesterday. Sigh. On top of that the case for the laptop was rescheduled from arriving Friday to Monday (it’s coming via UPS, even though it was purchased through Dell, too — strange) but whatever.
I’m not sure if I should do something crazy like sit downstairs with a book and anxiously watch the front door for the arrival of the FedEx man, or if that’s a little too crazy. I mean, I really want the laptop. Hm. I will consider this, as I am halfway through Magic Strikes by Ilona Andrews and it’s engaging, but I don’t usually read during the day in this new apartment. (The bed is so soft, I fall asleep, and we don’t really have comfortable chairs as of yet so it’s hard to sit and read.) But there is a nice squishy couch downstairs in the lobby… this is sounding even better than it had earlier. We’ll see.
Oh, priorities. And the bridal shower.
Wednesday February 18, 2009
Lots of things to do, as always, and never enough time — or motivation — to do them all in any efficient or speedy way. Ha!
Today I’ve been writing (for real, for the first time in days), finally forcing myself through the climax I’ve been avoiding writing. I doubt I’ll finish what I want to tonight, but getting through a bit makes me feel productive. I keep pushing it off because I’ve come down with a case of the “what ifs” regarding the scene. What if I did this? What if I took the scene in this direction — or that? The forward motion of the plot is stalling because I’m getting hung up on the details. I just need to push forward with the gut and then rewrite if what the gut likes turns out to make no sense. Methinks. Hm. Sounds like a plan, at least, and I certainly need one of those!
My priorities since Saturday have mostly been leaning toward wedding stuff — writing up the ceremony script, deciding on our vows and what we’ll say — and nailing down other details (the florist, the menu). I’m reluctantly annoyed about this stuff taking up my time. I want to be doing other things but I don’t like pushing wedding stuff to the side or off. It’s supposed to be important, right? It is. I just don’t like thinking about it because thinking makes me worry about Murphy’s Law. Where I go, Murphy’s Law follows, it’s a proven fact of my existence. Planning as much out in advance, as painful as it is, is really necessary.
The bridal shower is this Saturday. Part of me is excited, part of me dreads it. A little. I’m never very comfortable in a crowd, and make that crowd a group of women fawning and gushing about the approaching wedding and I think I might pass out a little due to lack of oxygen. (My smile will be plastered on and too-tight, not allowing enough oxygen to get to my brain; I can see it now.) I keep trying to focus on the bright side: everyone there will be there because they care about me. They’re not set on embarrassing me (too much) or making me uncomfortable (unless it’s funny). I hope. Being the first (of our close friends, of our generation/age of cousins) to get married is awkward. We’re doing everything with little personal experience guiding us. I’m always nervous about endeavors like this. But I keep trying to reassure myself that the nervousness is the good kind, the eager-for-the-new-experience kind of nervous. My only bridal shower experience was my cousin’s. I was in high school, bored out of my mind, and I really didn’t care about all of it. Now I’m not much more enthusiastic about the details, but I think my natural curiosity will pull me through it. I want to see how this will all turn out.
I’ve realized that because I’ve been writing so much fiction this last month — the last 6 weeks really — and focusing on the wedding in all of my other time, my blog entries have suffered a bit. I really miss getting all literary or critiquey on this blog! I think I need to write up and schedule a few posts reviewing the books I tore through this past weekend, at the very least. I have a few drafts of essay-ish posts I’ve been writing… I think I need to finish a few of them. I love discussing fantasy. Complaining about how my wedding planning is progressing (or not) should be going on the blog I’m keeping for family and friends for the wedding. Right? Sigh.
I am getting married.
Wednesday January 7, 2009
I am getting married and it’s finally becoming real. The whole show dog aspect of it, anyway. (Erm, that was snarky. I mean the “public ritual” aspect of it is becoming real. Sorry, snarky bride police.)
Yes, it’s old news, generally, for people who know me, but it’s also shockingly real all of a sudden. Between today and yesterday two boxes from Papyrus Custom Printing arrived containing — hoho, you guessed it — custom-printed wedding announcements and thank you cards. So it’s all slowly becoming more real. That and the fact that the year is currently 2009 and is thus the same year (two thousand nine) that is printed on everything it’s no longer a vague “future” thing. It’s rapidly becoming a now thing.
The funny thing about all of this is that the actual exchanging of vows — or, well, not that; the actual signing of the documentation legally declaring us husband and wife – is the easiest part of the thing. It’s absolutely everything else that’s going to have the possibility of driving me crazy.
stress vs. willingness to spend
I’ve decided it comes down to something that can be explained graphically, and so I made a quick graph in MS Paint, old-school style. Basically I believe that the more or less you’re willing to spend, the less stress you have because if you’re not willing to spend much at all, you can’t have much, and if you’re willing to spend endlessly, you can hire someone to stress out for you. But if you fall any where in the middle, you eventually succumb to a certain amount of stress. The middle is where I estimate you’re willing to spend enough money to get everything exactly the way you want it to be but you’re not willing to go the extra step and hire a wedding planner to do it for you. I bet there’s a lot of room for argument with this graph but for the point’s sake, let’s go with it.
I’m somewhere on the rapidly increasing slope of the first part of the curve, where we’re not willing to spend much but by that token that means we have to do everything ourselves and we have to make certain sacrifices in order to ensure we don’t spend more than we actually want to spend. This complicates matters rapidly. Like choosing a photographer. Do you all have any idea what photographers charge now a days, especially when you have Keyword: Wedding as part of the transaction? Or a florist? If it’s just for some event, that’s one thing, but you throw in the word WEDDING and the prices skyrocket. It’s annoying. Really. This is part of what I hate about the wedding industry. (Other things include special cake servers encrusted with pearls and your monogrammed initials, EW; the list goes on.)
I hate that you can’t have an inexpensive wedding yet classy wedding. (Another graph: cost vs. “class.” You can imagine how sharply the slope inclines in that one.) It’s impossible. We chose up front to do the one thing guaranteed to keep one kind of cost down: we’re inviting only a select group of people, not all one hundred plus potential people we listed early on in the process. I just mailed twenty — twenty – invitations today. That basically amounts to forty people, maxiumum. That few meant stamps, invitations, and up-front costs are down. Favor costs are down. Food and drink costs are down — there just aren’t that many mouths to feed, so we can get elegant in food and beverage choices instead of going hick to be cheap. Reception site: we were able to get one that fits 100 people reaonably comfortably which will be just roomy for the forty of us.
However, regardless of how many people are going to the wedding, the photographer still charges for X amount of time and X amount of photos. There is a limited window of negotiation. We’re going to negotiate the heck out of it. Florist — there’s going to be a cost to that because of the Keyword: Wedding issue, but we’re only ordering a handful of tasteful little — tiny, really — arrangements for little tables, plus the usual lapel & bouquets. But as there’s only one Best Man and one Maid of Honor, no additional wedding party folks, that means we don’t have to go crazy expensive by any stretch. (I also have flower tastes that run basically only to peach/cream/white roses, nothing like orchids or calla lillies or gerber daisies, nothing crazy unusual or expensive.) So that’s one thing.
All of it, regardless of our cost-cutting methonds, makes Bryan and I wince a little. We knew from the start we’d be doing this wedding ourselves — our invitations are written from us, as etiquette states the people who pay for the party are the ones who are “hosting” thus from whom the invitations technically come. We also knew we wouldn’t want to wait very long to be able to really afford more (we were more inclined to go to City Hall and get it done, really, rather than waiting another two years to save up to have a big wedding). Honestly, even if we could afford a BIG wedding, neither of us wanted one. Neither of us is into complicated things. We like simple. Easy. Stress-free. But unfortunately even this path that we’re taking, while it looks on the outside to be stress-light, is actually more stressful than we really anticipated.
Or maybe it’s just me. Bryan is more or less mellow but I find I am starting — starting — to agonize a little about the details. I really know I shouldn’t. I should really stop thinking about any of it. All of it. I went ahead and did all that I’ve been able to do this early in the game and I think that’s a lot. I’ve been trying to keep on top of everything. All of the details. It’s agonizing, really, when it comes down to it, because I am a detail person. I can’t even write if it’s not in the right font. When anything remotely associated with the wedding comes across my vision and it’s not the way I want it I have to struggle to tell myself not to get involved or worried about the details where I can help it.
This morning at the post office, I discovered that the “wedding” stamp, a white heart on an ivory background, was 59 cents but because our envelopes had something “three-dimensional” (i.e. a ribbon) in it, I needed to pay a surcharge per envelope, making the stamp cost 62 cents. The 62 cent stamp was a green dragonfly. The envelopes were ivory; the wedding stamp was ivory. I had a moment — a fraction of a second moment — where my inner monologue was made up entirely of shrieking, agonized profanity. The perfectionist in me was clawing at my insides, desperate to make myself say, “Let’s go with two 59 cent stamps per envelope because they are the wedding stamp and they match so perfectly. The unnecessary cost is worth the effect of the cute little stamps on the envelopes.” Instead, I decided to go with the green dragonfly stamp. It’s classy. Yes it is. I tell myself this. I have been telling myself this. It’s also better than the 59 cent stamp and a 3 cents stamp (or 3 1-cent stamps) per envelope. I had to strike down the urge. It’s only the envelope of the invitation! You’ve written out every single address in the proper etiquette with your nice script handwriting and it looks lovely and classy but it’s only the envelope! The clerk at the post office looked at me strangely. She looked so regretfully at me, too. It was as if she anticipated the breakdown or the hissy fit. She looked at me, rumpled layers of clothing, damp ski jacket, pink extremities, and I swear her look told me, “You can break down, now, I’ll understand and sympathize.” It was surreal. I calmly and detachedly stamped all twenty envelopes, dropped them in the box, and walked out. Do you see what I mean about willingness to spend versus stress? I might have paid $15 more for double the unnecessary stamps to make ‘em all “pretty” but I’m not willing to, so I sacrificed that for a brief moment of stress indulgence. Sigh.
Thinking about it more, I realize I’ve gotten the look a few times now. The “Oh, she’s the bride, if it doesn’t go her way she’ll throw a fit, so let’s be prepared for it” look. Sometimes it’s tinged with sympathy, as if it’s really fine — accepted and expected! — for me to indulge in a fit because it’s practically my duty as a bride to throw a fit or ten; sometimes it’s tinged with resignation. The David’s Bridal clerk was looking a little resigned to me throwing a fit when the gown I wanted wasn’t in stock pretty much anywhere so I’d have to order it blindly if I really wanted it. But I didn’t throw a fit, I approached it all with an almost clinical practicality. If anything I was actually a bit snarky, more or less because I hate dressing rooms. Hate. Hate. Hate. (If she would have tried to come into the room with me I would have thrown a fit. Yep, and it’d be my ordained right to throw a fit, too.) I tried on 6 dresses and each one was not perfect and I was shrugging about it, dancing around in the gigantic flourescently white things, saying exactly whatever popped into my head. “Meh, this one’s too crusty with sequins. I’m not getting married in Vegas.” Or, “This one’s visible boning makes it look a little cheap. I’d much prefer the hidden boning.” “This one’s bodice is a little low and slices into my boobs uncomfortably. I don’t want to be a slutty bride, thanks.” And what was really funny was that the bridal consultant still didn’t get a sense of my personality after all of that, even after I really blatantly said I can’t wear strappy heels because my feet will hurt so stop pushing them on me or that the ridiculous foam thing they pretended was a bra was actually horrifically uncomfortable so I don’t want to buy it for $75, thanks. Hm, I suppose I was sort of rude. I said it very politely with a smile, maybe that helped. My mother was also there being judiciously practical with a hint of emotion leaking through now and again. (I think she too is realizing the ritualistic aspect of this is just about real now.) Also, the more I think about it, I think I was deliberately pushing on the snark because I was refusing to get all gushy about it. (High gush factor in a bridal store dressing area. HIGH GUSH FACTOR. I hate being gushy. Hate hate hate. Just like dressing rooms!) I refuse to be a girly girl about a lot of things, and being all “Aw! I’m in wedding dress! Prance, prance, prance!” probably would have made me vomit a little. Thus the snark. Make everything into one big joke or criticism fest and the sentimentality gets shoved aside. I couldn’t even bring myself to smile in the pictures my mother took of me in the trial gowns.
(Naturally I ended up ordering my dress blind — the size will work, no worries — and I figure that’s the best thing all around. Dressing room was for almost naught, though, tear, tear a little for that.)
I think as things move along, I’m going to either get snippier, snarkier, cooler, or gushier. (I’m going for snarky cool — detached from stress, staying far away from gush.) Though the bridal shower might be hardest. That’s pretty much the ultimate estrogen gush fest. Please, someone get me a provocative gift or toy so I can open it in front of a bunch of middle aged women and have a good belly laugh. I really think that will be essential in keeping away the gush factor. Oh, and beer. I think I will need beer at my shower. Or a nice margarita.
So many things to come in the next month or two. The bridal shower. The bachelorette party. (I am staying out of planning that one — I am not Scrubs‘ Elliot, thank goodness. So long as I am not forced to do anything inappropriate with a man who is not my husband to be, I think I will tolerate pretty much any curveball the ladies decide to throw at me.) The only (unfortunate? fortunate?) thing is that the wedding festivities don’t end after the wedding. In May there will be receptions held for us by Bryan’s family, which means we get to have more opportunity for by-proxy stress and gush. Oh, joy. The funny thing is that throughout all of this, Bryan has agreed with me. He hates all of this as much as I do but unlike me he dismisses things. No worries. He puts it out of his head. He knows if a matter needs fussing over I’ll be fussing, so he doesn’t have to worry about fussing. It’s funny, really; we just want it to be over. Or, rather, we want the day to be here already so we can just stop worrying about the planning. Or maybe I want that more than he does. The marriage thing is exciting but the wedding thing is more stressful than anything. I think I’ll get legitimately excited when it’s here. It’s the agony — borderline, borderline agony — now I can really do without.
Repeat the new mantra: Low stress, low gush, happy times will come. Breathe.
The argument: Bella is no Buffy, to her detriment.
Friday December 5, 2008
I found this article yesterday on an author’s blog and I absolutely agree with the article (and the author’s sentiment, though I won’t link back out of courtesy to the author’s post’s request). The article’s author makes a terrific, and alarming, point about the potentially dangerous and potent message of the Twilight books by Stephenie Meyer. (I emphasize potentially. Not every reader will read them this way, nor should they, but the message is there, to be seen.) [A warning, dear readers: spoilers for the Twilight series will abound.]
As the article states:
If only Meyer had taken Buffy as her template. If only she had used that groundbreaking series as her foundation and built on it. If only there was a Whedonesque intelligence and modern, feminist sensibility informing Twilight and its successors. If only.
What you have instead in Meyer’s work is a depressingly retrograde, deeply anti-feminist, borderline misogynistic novel that drains its heroine of life and vitality as surely as if a vampire had sunk his teeth into her and leaves her a bloodless cipher while the story happens around her. Edward tells her she is “so interesting … fascinating”, but the reader looks in vain for his evidence.
(A disclaimer: I absolutely love Buffy and Joss Whedon; go rent Season 1 of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Go. Now.)
After reading that, my first thought was, Oh, thank God someone just came out and said it in a respectable newspaper. We passionate, obscure bloggers can only do so much.
To stumble-upon-ers: I am a writer and lover of books about kick-ass girls who do things, who save their worlds, who break stereotypes and shatter tradition. I wrote a whole thesis on this. I am fervently critical and passionate about this. When I read a book in the genre I love that praises the passive female protagonist — or rather, praises her for being special when she is not — I get mad. Had the books been written from Edward’s perspective, or in third person, one could probably argue that poor Bella is not so much the protagonist — the one who makes the action happen… because she’s not — but rather the Female Love Interest, or Designated Love Interest to the more vibrant Edward. It’s so much his story. She reacts to him. In New Moon, when Bella is mostly on her own for the book with Edward’s decision to take a break, she isn’t alone. No. She finds a new male on to whom she can latch — Jacob. It’s not so much her story as the story of the dependent relationships she forms.
It’s Bella who is our narrator, Bella who is our guide into this fantasy world. But rather than guide is in and stake out her own space within it, she gets subsumed within it and dissolved by it, replaced with a character who is only a shadow of a strong, independent female; a shadow of the woman Edward keeps insisting she is. Meyer tells us how wonderful Bella is. She never shows us. Poor Bella loses herself in her relationship with Edward.
Granted, Bella has moments. Those moments are what kept me clawingly optimistic throughout my reading of the series. Whenever the plot pulled my hopes down, I clawed out of that hollow of despair and said, “No. Bella will eventually Kick Ass. She has to prove she’s Awesome. After all, why else would both Jacob and Edward love her so much? She has to be Awesome.” But that moment never came — not really. When it kind of did — in a subversive, (passive) way in Breaking Dawn (Bella’s shield) — I was disappointed. Bella doesn’t determine her own destiny, like some fantasy protagonists. She isn’t faced with a destiny she didn’t chose and proves she can brave it and make the best of it, like others. She’s not a fantasy hero or even a heroine. She’s a tragic gothic stereotype of a heroine who, rather than dying spectacularly, just keeps on living.
Here’s another disclaimer: I am engaged to be married. I will be married in March to my soulmate, a man for whom I would do anything and who would do anything for me. I am not some crazy feminist writer/blogger who loves Women Who Do Things and say that women can’t do things with men hanging attached to them. Of course women can do things while in love, while in relationships — any kind of relationship with any one, for that matter. Women can be independent and be committed at the same time. Isn’t that the trait the media most praises in a successful career mother? The woman who is able to balance kids, husband, job, personal life? She is the ideal to which we women in western society are supposed to ascribe, to shoot for. (Which, in itself, is still sad; that women are still seen to have “complete” lives only when surrounded by that nuclear stereotype, regardless of her personal sense of completeness or fulfillment with her own life, whatever or whomever it may entail.)
And then there’s Bella. When she finally finds the balance, she’s not Bella at all, she’s some thirtysomething analogue whom we don’t recognize from the “normal” teenage girl she once was. One could argue Bella changes and grows throughout the series. I argue, rather, that she inconsistently fluxes between melodramatic anxiety and passivity until she transforms into someone who is most certainly not an organic incarnation of a grown-up Bella but rather a forced shell of who we’re told she is based on roles she is given — wife, mother, vampire… non-human being.
What’s interesting, in the context of me speaking about this on this blog, is the thought that’s occurred to me that criticizing books on this blog while being an author myself is a little… well, iffy? But I suppose the other way to look at it is this: If I met Stephenie Meyer in real life, and she asked me, “What is your honest opinion of my books?” I would, frankly, be honest. I immediately and superficially enjoyed her books — I did — but they left me unsettled. The more reflecting and discussing I’ve done, the more unsettled I’ve become. I am still unsettled, even more so after letting Breaking Dawn sink in. (My enthusiasm was so short-lived.) I won’t be able to re-read them. I know that. Having read them as a happily-in-a-relationship twentysomething, not a depressed 17-year-old bemoaning her lack of love life — oh, how those years changed me — I have a completely different view. Reading those books as a mother, I’d feel different yet again. I suppose the ultimate beauty of a blog is that you don’t have to read it or agree with what I say, but hopefully my point of view might have given you a new view from which to consider while forming your own.
But, strangely enough, I am glad these books exist. I am glad I read them.
I am sad about their ridiculous popularity, but I am a firm believer in the idea that dialogue is that which expands our minds and enables us to grow as human beings. Without two (or more) sides to any view or argument, where would the growth be? Without different opinions, what kind of people would we be?
I suppose, ultimately, what I’m hoping for is for more novels and stories (for children and young adults, especially) from the Kick Ass Woman (or strong, assertive young woman or girl) point of view. I want more books that show women doing anything and everything men can do — and have done — in both real life and in existing literature of every genre. I want female characters in fantasy that display the same depth, complexity, assertiveness, and power of many male protagonists in fantasy.
Some authors have and are succeeding at this in certain subgenres of fantasy (Robin McKinley, Tamora Pierce, Garth Nix, Shannon Hale, Patricia Briggs, Jeaniene Frost); some have partial yet luadable success (Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials). Some books featuring male protagonists have casts of female characters with terrific complexity and depth (Jim Butcher, Sherwood Smith, Robin Hobb, George R. R. Martin) and some with female protagonists have surprised and pleased me with the journeys of those protagonists (Trudi Canavan). We have to keep going, though. That’s why I write, that’s why I’ve always wanted to write.
As I’ve said, this also means novels featuring male main characters/ protagonists/ heroes with co- and supporting female characters who are equal to their male counterparts in complexity, emotion, and range of possibility. This is starting to happen more and more frequently; however the waif/weak/incompetent female love interest still exists, though, as supposed counterpart to her brave, heroic, and intelligent male protagonist. Why does this happen in fantasy? Think of the successful marriages you know: those couples are not fractionally as imbalanced and mis-matched as quite a few fantasy couples tend to be. Fantasy characters deserve to be as real as any real person, as any good, realistic character in any other genre.
Parents should get involved and responsible in this discussion, as well, for the sake of their young readers (in terms of children’s and YA literature). They should recognize which books contain which messages and be able to respond intelligently and with good information to the questions curious kids and teens will inevitably ask in response to books that provoke such thought. Regardless of the book, its characters, or its message, if it provokes serious intellectual conversation, I think that’s a terrific and laudable thing.
The low-brow and high-brow of fantasy books… and movies.
Wednesday October 22, 2008
I just discovered Limyaael’s rants, thanks to a friend’s suggestion, and I’ve read through a ton of them today. I’m so much more random than she is in my blog posts and rants (and exponentially more prone to tangents), but it’s absolutely refreshing to read someone well-read, thoughtful, and full of really well-substantiated complaints, rather than just a rant for the sake of a rant. It’s so rare to meet someone as obsessed with fantasy who also works or has worked within the confines of the typical university English department. So many English students at the undergrad and grad level are utterly disdainful of fantasy literature. Probably fewer now than a decade or two ago (and certainly exponentially more than a generation ago) but still. Thinking fantasy fiction isn’t valuable in any literary sense is still too widely held an opinion for me to be happy… but that’s tangential to my point here.
Anyway this post got me thinking more and more about Robert Jordan and Terry Goodkind. I’ve both bashed and defended them on this blog, pretty recently, too, and her utter evisceration of them led me to two interesting revelations about my own opinions of them and fantasy in general: I am really haughty and elitist (or really, really contemplative?) about fantasy literature, what I like about it, what I hate, and what I write — but I do so enjoy the B-movie (or C-movie) novel or series every now and again. The part of me that in a very hick, low-brow manner really, really enjoys a movie the high-brow folks tell me I should disdain, or enjoy a fantasy book that the academic nerd part of me wants to beat remorselessly until it’s beyond dead. I’m that way with movies, too.
The first time (and subsequent second two times) I read Robert Jordan’s The Eye of the World (the first book in his Wheel of Time series), I loved it. I still, deeply, do enjoy it. I read it when I was 15; I was in 10th grade social studies class when the kid behind me said, “You like fantasy books, right? You’d probably like this book.” And pointed it out to me. I went, bought it, finished it, and bought the second… and third… up to the eighth, which was all that existed in paperback at the time. The ninth was coming out soon in hardcover, but I was cheap. Anyway I devoured them during the spring of my 10th grade year, amid jeers of my high school softball team compatriots who thought I was a complete and total nerd for reading 800-page books. (Some thought I was insane, others were incredulous, others nodded and said really complimentary things that embarrassed me and my loath-to-brag-about-my-high-grades attitude; I was rather the reluctant good student in 10th grade as opposed to the bitter elitist I became as a senior in high school.) At the point I was at in my life, those books really made a difference to me. They were, now that I think of it, the first major epic fantasy series I read. (I read Tolkien for the first time almost eighteen months later.)
Goodkind was more of an accident. I stumbled upon Wizard’s First Rule in the bookstore (or was it on Amazon.com?) in the desperation of one looking to move their addiction from one drug to another. I stand by what I said a few weeks ago — I did enjoy Wizard’s First Rule. I devoured it and the subsequent five or six books — with a bit more pain and reluctance, each time. In fact, Wizard’s First Rule was the book that helped bring Bryan and I together — I saw it sitting on the desk in his room at college and pointed it out, saying I’d read it and enjoyed it, and we bonded over it. (Long story short, he never actually ended up reading beyond the third book, I think.) However, in re-reading it years later, in the fall of 2006, I stopped after a few chapters. I cringed. I’d been fully immersed in English literature and Creative Writing classes at college by then, and I’d also read a lot more fantasy. A lot. Not only fantasy but other genres as well; I’d discovered the 18th century, too, a century I’d somehow mysteriously skipped in my education in high school and college up until the fall of 2005.
I now, in 2008, have come to agree with Limyaael’s assessment, that the books are more or less full of excess, badly disguised tropes, and annoying, annoying things. (I’ve always been a hater of the Sisters of the Light, but I didn’t start disliking the Aes Sedai until later.) I think a lot of Jordan fans (speaking from experience as a former active member of a Robert Jordan fan site) idealize the books far beyond their merit, and in addition a lot of them take the framework of the books (which is more or less fun) and use it to imagine their own worlds, characters, and doings, all of which are a lot more interesting than what Jordan came up with. Also, there are a few particular characters (all female) that had me gnashing my teeth, probably Faile in Jordan’s chief among them. Oh, Faile and Perrin. Shoot me in the foot. Not to mention Rand and the three ladies, which me, the mostly liberated woman, found irritating for its sheer implausibility based on a bad characterization substantiation rather than its concievability as a basic concept. I’m all for well-written open marriages or polygamy, or what have you, but it has to be well-substantiated and based in concrete characters. When your characters are flimsy, which Elayne (sorry) mostly is (Aviendha was always a favorite until she started being all cuddly with Elayne in a manner that was so blatantly not the Aviendha we all know and love)… oh, on and on.
But I still think of them fondly, for all of that! I find I’m embarrassed. I too am embarrassed somewhat by how inordinately excited I am by the upcoming Legend of the Seeker series based on the Sword of Truth books. (There was a half hour preview on TV this past Saturday; I was all geeky about it. Gosh, I am really geeky.) I’m also excited about the movie Twilight, even given how much I’ve criticized the books on this blog. Why? Maybe it’s that I find I have a personal stake in the genre, and I am really emotionally connected to how well those series/movies portray their source material as well as how well they do financially.
(I always find myself wondering what I’d do if someone options my stuff. Depending on the contract I’ll probably have little say or choice but still… I just hope it doesn’t turn into a Seeker: The Dark is Rising atrocity. ATROCITY. They ruined Susan Cooper’s book! Not that the twelve year olds ever heard of the Newbery Honor-winning book The Dark is Rising before that film, but…)
True Blood, HBO’s series based on Charlaine Harris’s Sookie Stackhouse books, is terrifically true to the books (as far as Sookie’s plot is concerned), but it also takes its own liberties in creating interesting, new subplots (Tara and her mother, Tara and Sam, Jason and his addiction) that aren’t in the books at all — but the show does it well, while still staying loyal to the source material. I’m also fascinated by the adaptation process (and Hollywood versus independent means (Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog) versus television, both cable and network). Twilight is likely to be either decent or bad (it can’t be better than the book unless it halves the angst and quarters the melodrama, which from the trailer I can’t imagine it doing), and Legend of the Seeker looks, well, good. I doubt it’ll be amazing (even Sci Fi’s excellent take of the Dune novels wasn’t amazing, though I do own it on DVD, teehee). I don’t watch a lot of amazing television, but I do watch a lot of decently good television — more than I did in college, anyway. Fringe, Pushing Daisies — they’re not perfect or out-of-the-heavens wonderful (they’re not the pure, unadulterated nerdgasm that is 30 Rock, for instance), but I do enjoy them. And what, may I ask, is wrong with that? Nothing, I hope.
I was thinking earlier that this has to be one of the reasons I’ve always been compelled to be a writer. I’m a nit-picker, a perfectionist, one who constantly enjoys picking out things that don’t jive with me and explaining what would work for me and why. But rather than stop there (or merely point out what doesn’t work for me and bemoan the state of the world), I write. When I saw Disney’s Pocahontas as a 5th grader and was up-in-arms pissed and self-righteous about how utterly inaccurate it was, I knew I wasn’t like all the other kids. Or, even, some of the adults. (Yeah, I was over-dramatic from the cradle, ask my mother or my 2nd grade teacher, Mrs. Galdeau. They’ll tell you.) As a kid, I’d read a book about a male protagonist and the whiney female he saves and initially love it. The older I would get, the more I would question it. I’d wonder what if it’d be like this or what if that had happened instead. Eventually I’d get to the point where I’d get pissed and go write my answer to it. (Harry Potter evoked that in me. I was 13 and hopelessly annoyed at it after I was initially bubbling with giddy joy over it.)
As I’ve read more of the canon, as I’ve learned about writing, re-writing, hacking and slashing, editing, and all of the details, I find myself needing and demanding further complexity of myself, of my characters. I find my plots twisting in ways I’ve never seen in a book before, characters doing things I haven’t seen characters in books do before. I keep asking myself the questions. What if, what if. Why be confined to stereotypes or tropes? I’ve studied Campbell inside and out (and have the thesis to prove it) and knowing the formula I feel I’ve full license to break and bend it and find new ways to explore it based on the trends my characters take and the answers to the questions I find myself inescapably asking. Naturally someone’s done everything before in one way or another; I mean, there are only 36 basic plots and Shakespeare wrote most of them. I don’t know how much I really believe that. Our world is constantly changing. Our literature, our fantasies, should, too.
I write things that intrigue me — I don’t write to make myself happy. I’m not easily made happy. I enjoy challenges, being made to think, and yes, while I hate seeing myself mess up, I do it all the time. With enough hindsight, I look back on my mistakes, blunders, and unexpected happenings, and I learn from them. Or, ideally, I hope I do.
the latest updates
-
