Childhood

19 March 2005

Recently I had the opportunity to both read the book and watch the movie Popular Music from Vittula. 

Many of the changes made to transform the book into a screenplay were cosmetic-required by the differing demands of the media, but some were structural giving the film not just a different ending but a different feeling from the book.

As happens very rarely, I liked both portrayals. 

I was extremely happy that the mouse massacre in chapter 12 was omitted from the movie.  That was gruesome enough to read about-seeing it would have been too raw.  As I thought back to that section of the book, and what it might have looked like up on the screen, I wondered what impact such a scene would have had if it had been included in the movie.

In the book, Matti's experience was painful and stomach churning to read about. However, I still was sympathetic to him as a character by the end.  It seemed a very powerful way of showing the struggle that often happens between adults and children and is frequently characterized by the child yelling “You just don't understand!”  In this case the author set up a situation where I was simultaneously repelled and impressed by Matti's actions.  At the same time I never lost sight of how much work he put into the  mouse project so when Heinz refuses to pay, I come solidly down on Matti's side-nearly cheering as he throws Heinz's manuscript into the fire.

If this section had been shown on screen, I think the images would have overwhelmed the character of Matti, and the movie itself.  Some images take on a life of their own in a visual medium.  In addition, this section had very little to do with the relationship between the boys and, in the movie, would not have added much to our understanding of them.

This section of the book did underscore ideas that much of what children do is invisible to adults and much of what adults do is either mysterious or invisible to children.  It also shows Matti moving from what I think of as the world of children-where a certain timelessness and ability to use the imagination to make up for lack of material goods (for example the difference between `making' their own guitar and reaching the point where only a real one would suffice) into the world of adults.

Why is the above my conception of childhood?  Children are certainly represented in fiction as having a different sense of time than adults-an ability to be absorbed in their own play for extended periods of time.  I wonder if that is a particularly middle-class conception of childhood.  What effect does our economic status as children have on our perception of childhood?  

As a child, I never lacked for the basics and only remember one time when I felt like my family was threatened (when one set of Uncle and Aunt were divorcing-something that Just Didn't Happen in our family as far as I was concerned).  What has that done to my ability to accept other people's narration on childhood?

If I compare my reaction to some of the `children' in One Night Stands by Rosa Liksom to Matti and Niila in Popular Music I find that I am much more comfortable in Matti's world than in the worlds presented in One Night Stands.  There was much in Matti's upbringing that I could relate to.  I am also from a small town that is at least a three hour drive to the `big city' of 50,000 and a good seven to nine hour drive from an actual metropolis.   And while we had TV's and two cinemas (one the local drive-in), as teenagers we found that we were about five years behind the rest of the country in fashion, slang, and other things that 'mattered.' 

Matti's experience with the distorted maps in his school resonated with me because, once I left home, I found out how strange it was to be from Wyoming.  One of my friends said, mostly in jest, that he never believed in Wyoming until he met me.  Another friend who grew up on the West Coast always confuses Montana and Wyoming.

In One Night Stands much of the setting is very urban and `modern.' For me, even after living in and around Seattle for a decade plus, the urban environment is alien.  I remember visiting friends in Seattle when I was at school in Olympia.  We went out for a walk and he was telling me where the `bad' part of his neighborhood was.  To my eyes city streets all look the same-but when I think back to my own childhood I can remember learning, without being told in so many words, which parts of town were the `wrong' parts.

Now I find myself focusing on the questions raised when adults write about childhood.  I do wonder how much of that focus stems from the fact that I have a six-year-old who is in the process of establishing an independent identity.  He is constantly in my thoughts and can't help but shape them to some extent.

Reading this book and seeing how Matti's mother and father disappear into the background makes me wonder what my son will remember of his childhood and how his memories and mine will be different.  I look forward to finding out in fifteen to twenty years.

Welcome Art

3 March 2005 

Last week was a magical-not only because of the magical elements in the novel Prince by Ib Michael but also because it happened that I was able to attend the dress rehearsal of Seattle Opera's production of Florencia en el Amazonas by Daniel Catan and a live performance of  Delaware a collaborative piece by Matt Fontaine, Tim Sanders, and the band Awesome.  

Prince is suffused with both the mundane magic of a childhood vacation by the sea and the supernatural magic of restless spirits coming to grips with death.  

Florencia en el Amazonas is a modern opera set on the Amazon River during the same period as “Prince,” in the decade before World War I.  As the cast board a steamship to travel the River to see the great Florencia's first concert in her homeland since she left to make their fortune,  they are immersed (in once case quite literally) in the mystery of the river.  They all experience the transformation of their hopes, loves, lives, or illusions as the river carries them on.

Delaware is a performance piece that exists more in the land of dream and desire than on any earthly plain.  Musical numbers are interspersed with short dialogues, each building on the other in with a fugue-like effect.  Decisions are postponed, made, experienced.  Bliss is sought, denied, lost, found.  Waffles are made to the music of kitchen implements, shared, and eaten.  There is much talk of the ocean-- fish guts and all--  eventually leading the audience, laughing, home to the end of the performance.

That was last week.

This week was extremely mundane, beginning as it did, an insomnia attack that made a mess of my Monday.  I was looking forward to spending time reading and usually devour fiction books.  101 Reykjavik defeated me.  It was so deeply disaffected that I had a difficult time reading-it was more of a struggle to read than some of the more technical journal articles I have read this quarter.   Even though the writing and word choice was clever, there was no center to hold, no place in the novel for me as the reader to make a place for myself. 

I was unable to force myself to finish this book.  There are some images that I do not want burned on the inside of my eyeballs for all time.  

These starkly different experiences with works of art encouraged me to think about how I engage with art-especially literature and why I might not be the right audience for this book (and other works like it).
   
When I read a work of fiction, it is to immerse myself in a different world.  I have known for years that I am an escapist reader and as such I am not much of a fan of most of the post-modern work I have read-given its heavy emphasis on gritty modern life.  If I want that level of angst I can gossip with friends, read the newspaper, or read my yellowing teen-angst poetry collection.

I have never been a fan of dark humor-it too easily slips into either horror or is too firmly dependant on people making stupid decision after stupid decision.  

I empathize too strongly with the characters to be able to enjoy such bleak humor.  I want to help them, to get them into AA, encourage them to get a job or go to school, send them to a local therapist, or at least have the option of cutting off all contact if their self-destructive behavior continues.  None of which are an option when reading a book.  The closest I could come was in closing the book and deciding to read no further.

The book may be meant as a black comedy or a commentary on the dreadful ennui of modern life in a welfare state but I do not have the right sense of humor, attraction to watching train wrecks, or strength of stomach to stick it out.

By one definition, my strong reaction to this book proves that it is Art, as it engaged me at a visceral level.   However, it is not art I would recommend.  Even though I have friends with a more cynical take on the human comedy, what kind of back handed compliment would it be to say: “This book really nauseated me, but I think you might like it.”  

I come at art with a very specific idea-does it make the world a better place?  I believe in prescriptive art-art that shows us how we could be better people.  This doesn't mean that everything must have a happy ending or be seen through rose-tinted glasses, but it mustn't create more darkness than it dispels.

Humans make dark places for each other everyday though their actions.  Genocide, war, starvation, disease, corporate malfeasance, and personal corruption twist the lives of millions of people every day.  Creating art that sows seeds of depression and revulsion does not lift those burdens.   

Such dark art does, however, speak to the diversity of human thought and experience.  Other readers found this book sharp, witty, and laugh-out-loud funny.  I would not deny them that pleasure.  I just cannot comprehend it.

Art whispers to us though our life experiences and either hits a nerve, strikes a chord, or bounces up and down on the funny bone until we give in laughing at the absurdities of the universe.  

101 Reykjavik struck a nerve and hit it so hard and often that I was soon numb with the pain.  Prince and Florencia struck a chord as I emphasized with the characters and was swept in to their magical landscapes.  Delaware made me laugh out loud while at the same engaging me in the search for beauty and purpose in this life.
   
Art that I welcome into my life must contain seeds of redemption or beauty within its structure.   Art is my antidote to the vicissitudes of life.
   
101 Reykjavik is unwelcome art.   It stormed around the house leaving beer cans and other refuse, refused to share the bathroom, and expected me to clean up after it.  I have enough entropy in my life without its help.  So I kicked it out, changed the locks, and, quite literally, went on a cleaning spree.

Art impacts life.

Not always in the way its creator intends.

Real

3 July 2004

Many years ago I subscribed to a writer’s magazine.  I enjoyed receiving it for a time–  reading about what made writing work and learning various people’s tips for making it in the world of writing.  However, eventually, I found myself increasingly cranky as I finished reading the new issue.  Instead of coming away with new ideas for things to try in my own writing or new author’s whose work I should be on the lookout for, I felt depressed and discouraged.

After spending some time reflecting on what I had been reading, I noticed a pattern, more and more of the articles published were about ‘real’ writing and how you could become a ‘real’ writer.  Which seemed to imply being a published and paid writer.  The implication was that writing for fun or as a hobby was somehow demeaning or unproductive.

I freely confess that one of my fantasies is to be a published (and paid) author.  I would love to see my name on the spine of a book cover.  However, something a friend said many years ago stuck with me: Do you write because must write, or because you want to have written.  Thinking about what he said made me realize that part of me wants to ‘have written’-  to be famous or see my name in print.  I also realized that, while I love to write,  I’m not willing to put in the work necessary to become a professional writer.  From what I have seen from the outside, unless you are very lucky, it takes a lot of hard work and business sense to become a professional writer.

I’m content to be an amateur.  I enjoy writing essays for this site and I enjoy writing fiction for Tales of the Tai-Pan Universe.  I also enjoy bringing my latest story to the writer’s group I belong to, getting feedback, and trying to improve the piece and push it as far along as I can given my current level of skill.  After doing this for 15 years, my writing has definitely improved, and I would say that I can do solid journeyman’s work.

However it is unlikely that I will give up other interests to make more time for writing.   Hopefully I will continue to improve over the years– not just in the mechanics of writing, but in the quality of my ideas and my ability to execute them but I realized that there is a limit to how much time I’m willing to invest in the process.

Am I not a real writer, because I choose not to make it my full time job?  If that is true than I must not be a real mother because I am not with my son twenty-four hours a day seven days a week (and don’t even get me started on the dual standard for validation of the work done by stay-at-home moms).   When other people try to tell me that I can’t be having fun doing what I am doing, that what I am doing is not ‘real,’ what they are really saying is that I am not real.  That what I find interesting, entertaining, and even fun should not count on my life’s tally-sheet.

Now I don’t mind if folks don’t enjoy what I enjoy.  There are many things that I see people doing and I can’t imagine how they could possibly be having any fun.  However, my fear of roller coasters should not detract from someone else’s enjoyment of them, unless they force me to go on one ‘for my own good,’ in which case, they deserve what they will get (which is a panicked me screaming in real fear for the entire ride, needing a year’s worth of therapy to get over the nightmares induced by the experience, a lecture on how they are never ever to do that again, and me never ever trusting them again).

The world needs it amateurs, very few of us will ever do anything that will make us or our work famous, or even well known.  I believe that if I limit myself to doing things the ‘real’ way I will only be binding myself to the expectations of other people, and for the most part, other people who could care less about me as a person.

So I will keep writing my stories and essays and journals.  I will occasionally get out my paints and brushes and dabble in art.  I will noodle on my recorder.  I will work on those things that I find personally rewarding and it will be real to me, and that is sufficient.  And to anyone who tries to tell me differently, remember that my path is not yours.  My decisions are not yours to make.  My life is real and, more importantly, it is mine to live.

After-Life

30 May 2004

Most days I don’t allow myself to believe in an afterlife.  I think that Jesus did the world disservice by coming back from the dead, though I realize that it is necessary to show that he is indeed part of God and so completing the cycle of birth and death that shows us that God lived and died with us.

As a Christian it can be difficult to remove myself from the afterlife.  It permeates scripture, the prayer book and our hymns.  I think that is one of the many reasons that I do not make it to church on a regular basis, even though I think about God and my relationship to the divine almost every day.

These past few months I have been making some effort to attend church more regularly.  I do consider myself to be a Christian and feel that part of that is going to church.  I believe that my son should learn the ins-and-outs of church, which book to use when and the tunes to most of the hymns so he will have a framework to structure his own search for the divine.

I don’t believe that there is only one path to the divine.  Saying there is only one path puts god in a box and is dismissive of the journeys of other people.  If there is only one path, then those who are on the path are tempted to look down on those not on the path.  If there are many paths and many ways to see the divine then we each retain our humanity and find that we are all searching together.  

Any religion that claims to be the one true path is one that has been corrupted by the human need for power and control.  Looking at the world we live in, I believe that the only thing I can control is my own behavior: how I choose to act toward the people around me, how I choose to spend the resources given to me, where and with who I choose to spend my time.

I cannot control the weather.  I cannot control my own health (except in very limited ways).  I cannot control the health and well being of my friends and family.  I cannot even control my own moods (though I can do things to influence them).  This is all very difficult for me.  I have an urge to control things, to put things into order and the church exacerbates that tendency.  With the structure of the service, with the prayers, and with the sermon it tries to give some structure to a chaotic and unpredictable world.

Church life creates the illusion of control in the structure of the service and regularity of the rituals.  It sometimes forgets that the rituals that comfort us are also those which constrain us.  For me, putting the divine in a box, hemming God in, creates a tension that must be released.  I need time away from church before God explodes out of the box.

The one place that I do not feel this tension in the church is in the singing.  The poetry of the hymns ranges from ethereal to prosaic, and is, for me a living testament to the different ways people understand god.  Each hymn is different and they are contradictory in their presentations of God and God’s will but they tap into something that reaches beyond my day-to-day self.  When I sing the hymns I feel a close connection to all those who have sung them before me.  There is a feeling of both timelessness and individuality that comes to me when we sing.  It is the one time during the service that I feel connected to the community of believers and it is wonderful that all sing and sing loudly together.

So for all the issues that I have with the church, all the contradictions, all the limitations, sometimes I just need to join in and belt out “A Mighty Fortress is our God.” and feel a truth flow though me that cannot come if I am silent.

Grace Notes

14 May 2004

I have a very clear memory of whiling away at least one science class thinking about what I would name my children when I had them.  

Keep in mind that there was no prospective mate in the picture when I was dreaming up baby-names.  There was also no interest on my part in having children until I had completed college.  Apparently coming up with names for potential children was more interesting than what ever the teacher had on his agenda that day (the feminist in me requires me to note that the use of the male pronoun is intentional as there were no female science teachers at my high school).

I have always had a very strong connection to my family.  Even when I was a teenager and was having difficulties with family of the specific kind, family in general, family history, and family stories were things that I have found compelling.  It was natural that I would think about continuing my family, at least in the abstract.

For nearly fourteen years, those names were dormant in my memory, popping up every now an then as I remembered bits and pieces about high school or as I thought about what the future would bring.  I went to college, met my future husband, got my degree, got married, moved, got work, lost work, moved again, found more work, saved, bought a house and finally had a child.  He didn't end up with any of the names I had picked out when I was day-dreaming in class.   

My life took the path I expected when I was sixteen but I find, looking back on those dreams, that I was sorely lacking in imagination.  I dreamt that I would attend college with my best friends.  Instead I choose to go to a small strange school a thousand miles from my hometown.  I dreamed that I would get married before having children.  I never could have imagined what a smart, creative, loving, kind, generous, and above all persistent person I would ultimately fall in love with and marry.  I dreamed that I would live in a house with a yard.   I was surprised to find that the house for me would include a wonderful housemate as well as husband and that the house itself, along with being funky, would be one long, on-going project.

All this was brought home for me last Saturday as I watched my five-year-old son perform in a mass violin concert put on by his music school.  He stood up with fifty or more people, ranging in age from four to full grown adult, in the dressy outfit that he had picked out himself.  He paid attention to the teachers and played when he was supposed to.  As one of four people who got to hold him just after he was born, I was deeply moved to see him so grown up. It was equally amazing to see him return to his more casual self and insist on staying after the concert to give all of the teachers a triumphal high-five.

My life is just what I have imagined, but it is also so much more.  My dreams were pedestrian and mundane compared to the wondrous life I have stumbled into.

This is not to say that I do not have difficult times, but rather that, for that one moment Saturday last week, I was given grace to see clearly the amazing people that share my life.

My moment of glory did not center around a thing, or accomplishment, or anything that I could control.  The light fantastic that brushed by me reminded me that my gold, my treasure lives in the souls of my family of blood, family of choice, and in my friends.  That shining moment also reminded me that such treasure is ephemeral and should be cherished even more highly because it cannot be earned. It is a gift bestowed by those who choose to let me into their lives.  It is a gift of grace, and love.

Structure

7 May 2004

Earlier this week I had someone ask me if I was a grammarian.  I immediately said ‘no’ and I was taken aback at the vehemence of my own denial.   It seemed odd for someone whose favorite occupations are reading and writing

In school I was exposed to grammar in several different ways.  The most obvious was the classic grammar unit in English class, complete with diagramming sentences, verb tenses, and all the other components that sent me fleeing for the hills for fear of losing my mind.  What I didn’t realize at the time was that I was actually learning grammar though reading and writing.

Reading has always been a joy for me.  I enjoy sinking into a book and losing track of my surroundings.  I can not remember a time when I could not read, and more than that, I can not remember a time when concentrating on reading was at all difficult for me.  I could read anywhere there was enough light.  My surroundings could be noisy or quiet.  I could be travelling or curled up on the couch.  My parents, and now my husband, would have to repeat my name several times to pull me out of what ever I was reading at the time.

Writing has never been easy for me, but I enjoy doing it none-the-less.  I like words and I find it stimulating to try to convey an idea to someone else via the written word.  My writing has always been marred by grammar and spelling idiosyncrasies, though with the advent of spell checkers, a husband who is a natural copy editor, and twenty-plus years of trial and error it has seen some improvement.

Throughout my years of struggle with the written word, I have never considered myself a grammarian, but the more I have read over the years, the more I have come to respect the need for structure in language– a certain rigidity that forces authors to mold their thoughts in patterns that readers can understand.  When I first started to write, I felt that others should make the effort to understand me.  Then I learned the lesson we all learn, which is that the world does not revolve around me and, if I want people to understand my thoughts, the effort would have to be mine.
                       
I learned various bits and pieces of grammar with each paper that came back covered in red or purple ink.  Each teacher that took time to mark awkward sentences, explain the importance of the serial comma, or try to get me to understand the uses of the every mysterious semi-colon helped me build a style manual in my head.  My style manual still contains some of my own idiosyncrasies but each year I learn more.

This was recently brought home to me in my Norwegian language class.  I have gotten to the point where I know enough words that I can make baby sentences, and I have enough dictionaries that I can get myself in real trouble when I try to write something on my own.  In order to go further, I have to start paying attention to grammar and the rules and exceptions that make words and phrases ‘sound right.’  Unfortunately for me, regardless of the language, I seem to have a hard time understanding the rules that people have distilled from the way language is used.   Past tense, participles, prepositions, all dance around in my head and refuse to be pinned down into rules I can use until I can set up a feedback loop.  Once I am shown something, try to do it myself, and am then corrected (many times) I can then create a rule I can remember. 

For me the rules and structure of language come long after I know what it should sound like.  I don’t know that I will ever be a grammarian, but that will not stop me from loving words and the structure they need to thrive.

Spiral Learning

23 April 2004

There is a model of learning that says that, in general, people progress from unconscious incompetence, to conscious incompetence, to unconscious competence, to conscious competence.

Basically, a person starts out not knowing how much they don't know, progresses to the 'a little knowledge is a dangerous thing' stage, then begins to understand how much they have yet to learn, and finally, if they stick with it, they master a particular subject or skill.

This learning model has always seemed spiral in nature.  Many subjects or skills have levels of mastery that can be attained that leave the student with something that they can teach the next person coming up behind them while at the same time allowing the student to continue to learn, if they so choose.

Something this model leaves out are the feelings attached to each learning stage.  During unconscious incompetence is when I feel the most optimistic.  It is also the point at which I am most like to underestimate how long a particular project will take me.  

Conscious Incompetence is always accompanied by a sinking feeling in my gut.  This is the time when I am most likely to be derailed by illness or distracted by enthusiasm for a new project or skill set.  This is also the phase during which I am most vulnerable to mixing up the difficulty I am having learning my new subject with my own self-worth.  I, like many, tend to see my own worth in what I have accomplished, and when I am learning a new skill and taking two steps back for every one forward, it is hard not to take that struggle personally.  

Unconscious Competence is a slippery time emotionally.  Frequently, my evaluation of my own skills lags behind my actual ability. Really, I think that is the entire point of this phase of learning.  I spend so many years being conscious of my own incompetence that the time that I become fluent in what-ever-it-is, I'm in the middle of learning something else new and am dealing with a whole new round of sinking feelings.

Conscious Competence is not something I have a lot of experience with.  Perhaps I take it for granted.  I have always thought of it in terms of mastering an academic subject or a difficult skill.  I tend to assume that any skill that I can learn is one that others can master and take further.  In the past, I have seen this as an exclusive, rather than inclusive category, something obtained by professionals who have stuck it out in their field for many years.  

Upon reflection, I have come to realize is that Conscious Competence is fleeting.  It is a hilltop moment followed by another round of Unconscious Incompetence and all the steps that lead around the spiral to the next break in the clouds.  It may be, that as I spiral up the mountain, the cloud-breaks will come more frequently and last longer.  However, the trade-off is that the air is thinner and it gets more and more difficult to make it round the next bend.  At some point I have to decide when it is time to scale a different mountain and enjoy the moments of clarity that come with breathing easily. 

It is also important to realize that each skill, each mountain, does not require the same effort from each person.  Just because as skill is easy someone else, does not mean that I can follow where they lead without making sacrifices or stumbling on the path that they seem to walk with ease.

What I must remember is that the reverse is also true.  Subjects and skills that come easily to me may come to others only with long practice or much stumbling around in the dark.  Each person has to decide how much of that they are willing to put up with. 

Desire is what motivates the next step along the path.  How much do I want to be able to do what-ever-it-is that I am learning?  How much do I need a particular skill for what I want to do next in my life?  Answering these questions is much more important than asking how difficult the journey will be.  For me and the way that I learn, 'Why' is ever so much more important than 'How.'

Choice, Regrets

17 April 2004

When I was in High School I faced a choice of how to spend a part of my summer vacation.  Option 1 was to travel to Oregon, as I had every summer since I could remember, and spend time with my relatives.  Option 2 was to attend a writers camp in the wilds of northwestern Wyoming.

Both events appealed to me, but in different ways.   I enjoyed the summers spent visiting my cousins and, that particular year, my Grandmother was turning 80 and the whole family was in on the party. On the other hand, I enjoyed writing and the idea of spending an entire week with people who not only understood my compulsion to write, but shared it seemed an opportunity too good to pass up.  The fact that several of my long-distance-friends were planning to attend the camp only made the choice more difficult.

There was no way I could attend both events. No manipulation of time or space that would allow me the luxury of not having to choose between being with my family on a very special day and being with my friends doing something I felt passionate about.

This was also the first time I had had to make such a choice (that I can remember).  My parents discussed the pros and cons of each choice while leaving the actual decision up to me.  Not only did they not interfere, they committed to helping me attend either event, since, as a teenager, both funds and methods of transport were limited. The only factor in the decision was which event was the one I could least bear to miss.

Life as a responsible adult is full of choices that, once made, cannot be unmade.  In the greater scheme of things this first choice was a like a driving lesson for steering though life.   I can still feel the echo of the emotions of that time and the confusing pain of realizing that regardless of my choice I would have regrets.  

I choose to go to the writers camp, and now, twenty years later, I don't remember a lot of the specifics of that week.  I do remember it being a roller-coaster emotionally, but that equally was true of my day-to-day life.  What I do remember is how beautiful the camp setting was and how much time we spent writing.  

I wonder if I would have more vivid memories of that time if I had gone with my family instead or if  memories from twenty years ago would fade, regardless of the event they were attached to.  Would my life have been richer?  I don't know.  I was fortunate to have another six years to spend with my grandmother, including celebrating my wedding with  her on her birthday five years later.  

What I have learned is that I cannot do everything-- each choice, large or small, carries with it seeds of regret for opportunities missed.  However, it is important not to let regret crowd out the joy of living.

Muse-um

10 April 2004

I write as a hobby.  Most of the short fiction that I write is set in a shared universe (Tales of the Tai-Pan Universe).  Since I don’t write professionally my muse comes and goes as she pleases.  I can set stories aside for months or even years if I don’t feel inspired to work on them.  

I have many other interests and sometimes writing just takes a back seat to what ever my current passion is, but I always come back to writing.  It is what I do when I am stressed, how I cope when the world seems out of kilter, and it can be a lot of fun when the plot and characters are cooperating.  When the muse is with me, my fingers fly over the keyboard, scenes flow together like water running downhill, and characters talk to me, narrating their story as I try to keep up with their conversations and arguments.

When the characters are silent writing can be a hard slog thought deep mud.  When I am trying to write my way though a museless story, every line is work and every paragraph feels like it has been dragged from me, rather than flowing willingly onto the page.  The characters stubbornly refuse to answer my questions and I find myself getting up and walking away from the computer or checking my email every five minutes to see if something new has come in.  My mind rebels against the hard work of carding the wool of the imagination, much preferring to work with finished thread.

However, just as I always come back to writing as the primary outlet for my imagination, sometimes I find that the hard work of writing calls to me more than the easy stories my muse provides.  Writing to the dictates of a muse is easy and fun, but like cotton candy, it is quickly gone and leaves one feeling hungry and hyper.  

For me, putting emotion and feeling into a story is difficult.  To a certain extent, I have to feel what my characters are feeling in order to write with any depth.  My muse is fickle and does not like difficult situations and she frequently deserts me just as I get to the emotional climax of a story.  Sometimes I go though three or four drafts before I have the courage to write the tough scenes and, even though I know that about myself and my muse, I haven’t quite gotten to the stage where I can sit down and let my emotions bleed into the page on the first draft.

My muse requires coaxing, she reveals more and more about the story with each draft, and is willing to go deeper only after playing about in the shallows for a time.  Sometimes I have to leave her on the shore and dive on my own into the deep water.  Someday I hope to be able to write more consistently and be less reliant on my muse.  Until then, I will keep slogging away seeing the clear path of a plot disappear into the murky swamp of words. 

The Jesus Archetype

2 April 2004

I fell asleep one night meditating on two of my favorite characters in fiction:  Constable Benton Fraser, RCMP from the television show Due South and Captain Carrot Ironfoundersson, Night Watch from Terry Pratchett’s ‘Discworld’ series.

Both characters have a lot in common.  They are boys from the country who move to the big city.  They know their way around their respective cities as if they have never lived anywhere else,  yet retain their otherness and naïveté.

More importantly, they give their full attention to each person that they meet, regardless of that person’s status.  They remember each person as an individual and their authors write them in such a way that you believe that both characters will know that person if they meet again, regardless of how fleeting the first meeting was.

Finally, they frequently get the reaction 'is he for real?' from other characters in their respective universes.

I think one of the reasons I like these characters so much is because they are simultaneously a person you would want to have be on your side, while at the same time, they really would not be comfortable to be around on a day-to-day basis.  By their very actions, they make a person feel like they should be nicer, better, and more generous.  Which is much harder than it looks from the outside.

I have long known that I have a weakness for men who are strong and compassionate, naive yet aware of the people around them, and able to fight with the best of the action heros yet preferring to find peaceful solutions or talk their way out of a difficulty.  What I didn’t realize until just recently is that many of those characteristics are also attributable to Jesus.  I’ve been reading the bible as part of an ongoing project and was surprised to find such strong parallels with some of my favorite fictional characters.

So now I have a category for these two characters, men who, even though they are imaginary, inspire me to try to be a better person.  They embody the Jesus Archetype for me.  And by doing so, they allow me to examine my relationship to my faith, friends, and family in a friendly and welcoming way.  For one thing about the scriptures, they rarely make me laugh, while both Terry Pratchett and the creators of Due South make me laugh and think and learn.