Hello.

I saw The Avengers this weekend.  Then I saw it again.  I don’t generally see movies more than once in the theater, but this was a pretty damn cool movie.  I’ll admit that it bugs me that the official title seems to be Marvel’s The Avengers, but that’s just the way things work now.  Branding is all important, and with Disney now at the reigns of Marvel Comics, it can hardly be surprising.  I’ll also admit that I am not a fan of many of Marvel’s business practices (or of many other companies, now that I think about it).  But you have to pick your fights, and I decided to go ahead and see the film.

It was fantastic.  It was pretty much everything I would want from a superhero epic.  Far truer to the original source material than I would ever have imagined, and also just a great fantasy adventure film on its own merits.  If you haven’t seen it yet, and you need a push to go, then I highly recommend it.

For me, Marvel’s previous superhero films have been a mixed bag.  Putting aside all the films from other studios, I still haven’t been terribly impressed by most of them, even the ones I enjoyed.  Iron Man was good.  Iron Man 2 was clumsy, poorly plotted, and with a terrible final villain.  Captain America was fun, but never really payed off with all its cool ideas and the ending was, once again, rather anti-climactic.  The Incredible Hulk was probably my favorite of the films because it has a solid showdown at the end where Hulk clashes with the Abomination.  Though the Abomination really doesn’t look like he does in the comics, which I now find less forgivable considering how true the other films are to the look and feel of the original material.  But I can overlook it.  Thor was amusing, but (say it with me now) the ending felt a bit rushed.

In case it isn’t obvious by now, I like my superhero films (and action films in general) to have a big payoff at the end.  I’ll put up with a lot if it leads to an awesome battle at the end.  I sat through Avatar‘s boring parts because eventually a space jaguar battles a robot and dragons fight gunships.  The first Matrix is dreadfully paced, but it makes up for it with a kick-ass kung fu showdown.

In this way, Marvel’s films have all stumbled previously.  It is a mistake The Avengers eagerly corrects.  This is a truly epic adventure that dares to be every bit as fantastic and action-packed as it should be.  We’re talking flying fortresses, alien invaders, space dragons, Thor battling Iron Man, Thor battling Hulk, Thor battling Loki.  (Hmmm, realizing how much Thor fighting is in the film and that’s a good thing.)  The final showdown isn’t over in two minutes.  The bad guys are genuinely formidable.  The threat to our world is justified.  And our heroes’ victory is earned through sheer determination and awesomeness.

Did I mention how much I liked this flick?

Special mention goes to the Hulk, who finally gets a movie where he can demonstrate just how formidable he is.  The film finally give him a chance to unleash his full fury in a way I never expected to see.

Inevitably, The Avengers will be compared to other superhero flicks, past, present, and future.  I would compare it most favorably to The Incredibles, still my favorite film.  Both are superhero films that create compelling characters and still find time to have joyful superheroics in a way that most superhero films have rarely done.  I don’t know if The Avengers dethrones The Incredibles for me (probably not), but it certainly earns a special place in my heart.

Comparisons are part of human nature, but they’re so often arbitrary. Already, there are debates on how the new Batman film will stack up against The Avengers.  Yet aside from both being films based on comic book superheroes, they don’t seem to have much in common to me.  The Avengers is an epic adventure and pure, unadulterated fantasy with no apology offered.  Nolan’s Dark Knight Rises will inevitably be an entirely different animal.  Aside from being about superheroes, the films are clearly designed to scratch very different itches.

Now, I’ll admit I’m not a fan of The Dark Knight for reasons I’ve already written about.  I will no doubt love The Avengers while probably not even bothering to see The Dark Knight Rises.  I have little taste for Nolan’s brand of overwrought, un-fun version of Batman.  Yet that’s not an attack on the film itself because many people obviously do.  It’s not my bag, but neither is The Notebook or Saw.  Those films have their fans, and just because I don’t count myself among them, I don’t dismiss them as worthless.

It’s a debate that is largely pointless, like arguing over your favorite color.  It’s great to share our perspective, but it’s not going to change anything.  Just as I can’t fathom why so many people hated the Green Lantern movie or why so many others love the Star Wars prequels.  It’s not a logical choice.  It’s an emotional one.  And while I’m all for a healthy discussion, it’s all too easy for these to become false right-or-wrong arguments, as if everything in life can be ranked and collated into a rigid hierarchy.

If you asked me if The Avengers is superior to most every superhero film that came before it, I’d have to say yes.  But that’s because I’m a guy who likes it when a giant green man punches out space dragons and when a man is so good with a bow and arrow, he can actually save the planet.  Some people prefer their superheroes a bit more down-to-earth, a bit more mopey, a bit more talky.  That’s their call.  I don’t have to understand it.  I only have to respect it.

So let’s do our best to remember that when the inevitable comparisons begin.

Keelah Se’lai

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,

Lee

If someone is writing about how females are portrayed in fiction, they are not automatically guilty of feminist diatribe.  And talking about minority portrayal is not the sole province of extremists and radicals.  These topics are worth talking about, and just because someone might feel uncomfortable with the conversation, it doesn’t mean the conversation isn’t worth happening.  In fact, it’s probably the exact opposite.

More and more, I find myself frustrated by the pushback that comes with any attempt to discuss these taboo topics.  Nobody admits to racism / sexism / bias, but those biases still exist despite that.  And there’s no better way to see this than to try to have a simple, civil conversation about them.

It’s like when you point out that Fight Club fails The Bechdel Test, and then you get every jerk with a chip on his shoulder crawling out of the woodwork saying that women want to ruin all movies.  The Bechdel Test, by the way, is a measure of female presence in a story.  It goes 1) Is there more than one named woman in the story? 2) Do they have a conversation with each other? 3) Is it about anything other than men?  The test isn’t meant to be an immutable rule.  It’s not even meant to be a measure of feminism.  It’s just there to see how important women are to a story.  And women aren’t really that important to Fight Club.  That’s not an indictment to the film.  A world where EVERY story must have a strong female presence would limit the stories you could tell.  But it’s still something worth noting.

To put it in perspective, if we reverse the Bechdel Test, if it is about the prominence of males in stories, almost EVERY single story passes.  That says something important.  It says that we live in a society which focuses on malesm (almost always white ones).  Simply put, not every story has a place for prominent females, but nearly every story does have one for prominent males.

The same observation could be said for minorities, who struggle to find more than token roles.

The point is that American culture, for all its melting pot idealism, is still reluctant to allow certain types of people to share the spotlight.  And when people want to discuss that problem, they aren’t automatically accusing you of prejudice for not noticing it before.  And they aren’t out to chickify your favorite stories or guilty of reverse discrimination.  (A ridiculous concept, worthy of derision.)  They’re just talking about culture, sharing their point of view, and even if you don’t agree with it, it’s still valid.

We benefit from being a more inclusive, more socially aware society.  It’s not political correctness to try to avoid repeating the mistakes of our past and update our culture.  Giving women / minorities / robots more prominence isn’t an attack on the stories of old.  It’s just part of the forward motion that keeps our stories relevant to who we are.

So the next time you read a story or watch a TV show or go to a movie, take time to apply the Bechdel Test.  And even if you aren’t a woman, realize just how often woman are stuck on the outside of our culture.  Or how often being a minority (of any kind) is the beginning and end of a character’s personality.  Once you look at it honestly, you’ll see that it’s a bigger problem than most people think.

And, no, that doesn’t mean you’re a terrible person for not noticing it before.  It just means you’re a human being busy living your life, but sometimes, you have to do more than that.  Our culture will be the better for it.  More importantly, you’ll be better for it.

Keelah Se’lai

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,

Lee

Perhaps it’s unfair to generalize, but it seems to me that steampunk’s popularity is mostly due to its costume design.  Granted, I haven’t read much of it, but how much do I really need to read?  It’s like zombie fiction.  I don’t begrudge its fans, but it ain’t my bag.  It seems too repetitive, too predictable.  It’s an unfair complaint though because I have my share of predictable, repetitive fiction genres that I continue to love and enjoy.

But allow me to explore this thought a little more.

Cosplay is, for better or worse, a big thing among a certain group of sci fi / fantasy fans.  And some characters and concepts are going to be easier to make a costume for than others.  This might just be why zombies remain so popular.  They are, aside from possibly vampires, the easiest monster to imitate.  Put on some bloodied clothing.  Mess up your hair.  Stumble around.  There.  You’re a zombie.  This is undoubtedly why zombie walks are so popular.  You really don’t have to do much.  There are folks who go the extra mile, some truly amazing makeup and prosthetic work done by some, but for the most part, being a zombie is as easy as groaning and dragging one of your legs behind you.

Vampires, depending on the type you choose to imitate, are easier, but they also tend not to be readily recognizable.  Isn’t that one of the appeals of the modern day vampire?  They look like you and me and walk among us, a wolf in sheep’s clothing, undetected.  Vampires in cloaks with fangs or monstrous versions are scary too, but not in the same manner.  And also, more difficult to imitate at a glance.  Unless you go the full Bela Lugosi, a nice option but also not really scary anymore.  So a parade of vampires would, for all practical purposes, be a bunch of regular people walking along.

Steampunk, like zombies, is instantly recognizable.  It takes more work than playing zombie, but it still seems relatively easy.  Buy or make some Victorian-themed clothing.  Take a Nerf gun, spray paint it black, glue some extra bits on it.  And you’re done.  Like zombies there are certainly folks who put more effort to it than others, but at the end of the day, it’s not that hard to be casually steampunk.

With only a passing familiarity for the genre, I’m not implying that it isn’t worthwhile or that its sole appeal is the costumes.  But it certainly helps.  Not just because it’s easy to imitate, but because it’s easy to put on a cover and make instantly recognizable.  Just like zombies.  I don’t doubt that one of the strengths of these (and other) genres is its branding, its ability to be recognized at a glance.

We don’t talk about this enough but branding is important and pretending like it isn’t is rather silly.  In studies, if someone prefers Coca Cola and is allowed to see the Coca Cola label while drinking the soda, the pleasure centers in their brain become more active than if they are just drinking the soda.  Our enjoyment of something can (and most certainly is) affected by previous conditioning.  I am not conditioned to especially fond of zombies or steampunk, but I do love robots.  I could give some justification for that, but it seems to come down to previous experience and habits.  It doesn’t mean I can’t be discriminating.  I didn’t see the last Transformers movie because, robots aside, I had no interest in the brand of robogore and shakycam that the movie had to offer.  But if a movie has a good robot in it, I’m willing to ignore a lot of other things.

Great fantasy / sci fi characters usually have a branded quality to them.  Han Solo has his black vest, black pants.  Indiana Jones has his fedora.  Godzilla has his familiar cry, his fins.  Garrus has that eye thing he wears that serves no obvious purpose, but looks cool.  Superman has his red and blue, his cape.  Batman has his pointed ears, his cape.  Spider-Man has his . . . okay, so this is especially true with superheroes.  The question becomes sort of a chicken and the egg dilemma.  Do these characters make their costumes great or do great costumes make these characters?

The answer is probably that neither is more important the the other, and that these factors intertwine to make great characters.

The steampunk genre has the cool designs.  It’s just waiting for its defining character to arrive.  If that character ever hits the mainstream, then steampunk has a real future.  But right now, it has all the appearances of a fad.  Not that I know that for sure.  Nor do I think there’s anything wrong with it if it does end up being a fad.  I’d kill to have a character or story that was a cultural fad.

But what do I know?  I was positive the zombie genre would’ve been used up years ago, and I seem to have been right.  It hasn’t stopped it from prospering.  Maybe it’s the ease of the zombie cosplay.  Maybe it’s the success of its branding.  Or maybe I just didn’t grow up watching the right movies to appreciate it.  Whatever the reason, it seems to be hear to stay.  And maybe steampunk is the same thing.  I won’t even pretend to be able to predict it.  But as long as there are robots involved, I have no complaints.

Keelah Se’lai

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,

Lee

So here is the first part of an untitled Mack Megaton short story.  Hope you enjoy it.

My first question wasn’t why anyone would steal five dinosaur robots? My first question was how did nobody noticed until after the fact?  The robots had all been life size and while the citizens of Empire City were used to seeing a lot of weird sights, I had to assume five dinosaurs stomping their way through the streets was bound to draw some attention.

That’s what I got for assuming.

Because five robots were gone, and I’d been called in to take a look around.  Grigori (with two I‘s, his assistant had reminded us.  Twice.) Alexandrov had been a Russian immigrant, chasing the American dream with only his chipper demeanor and a small fortune in his bank account.  It must’ve cost him a big chunk of his cash to have his personal vision of artificial paleolithic paradise constructed and stocked with robotic reproductions of his favorite dinosaurs.  His butler or manservant or whatever (I didn’t get the exact title) showed us to the tremendous dome and left us there.

Jung sniffed a frond.  His nostrils flared.  He snorted.  “Plastic.”

Alexandrov stepped from behind a bush.  “Of course, it is plastic.  Robots don’t need to eat, do they?”

Jung shrugged.  While he was a civilized ape, I got the distinct impression that this plastic jungle didn’t sit well with him, put him on edge.  Jung had been born in captivity.  He’d never been in a real jungle.  And after mutating to his current levels of intelligence, he wasn’t interested in going home.  But I imagined this artificial realm reminded him of some of the things he’d lost.  There had to be instincts still buried under there.

Or maybe not.  Maybe the place just smelled bad.  I couldn’t tell.

Alexandrov studied me.  “You are the robot detective?  The one I sent for?”

“That’s me.”

He glanced behind me at Jung.  “And this is your monkey assistant?”

“Gorilla,” I said.  “And he’s not my assistant.  He’s my partner.”

Alexandrov chuckled.  “Fine, fine.  I like monkeys.  They are funny, are they not?”

Jung said, “I’m going to take a look around.”  He loped off with a frown.

Alexandrov said, “Did I hurt monkey’s feelings?”

He seemed honestly perplexed.  Like a lot of rich guys who surrounded himself by toadies, he most likely didn’t understand.  Guys like him weren’t capable of grasping a world outside of their control.  If they offended someone, they could always just ignore that person.  And if necessary, they could throw a few bucks at the problem.  Jung and I weren’t people.  And technically, we weren’t, but it wasn’t our non-human status that caused Alexandrov to see us as animated dolls.  It was probably how he saw everything in this world.

“I trust my people informed you of the situation?” he asked.

I nodded.  “Five stolen robots.  Tyrannosaurus, stegosaurus, brontosaurus, triceratops, and a pterodactyl.”

“Six robots,” said Alexandrov  “Five dinosaurs and a–”  He mumbled to himself in Russian.  “–caveman.”

“Caveman?” I asked.

He shook his head.  “Yes, yes, I know.  Dinosaurs and caveman don’t live at same time.  I know this, and I don’t care.  My jungle.  My robots.  If I want caveman, I get caveman.”

“Fair enough,” I replied.

“So you will find my robots, yes?”

“How hard could it be?” I asked.

“And you will bring them back, not broken.”

“I don’t know if I can promise that.”

Alexandrov grumbled in his mother tongue.  “No, no, no.  You must bring them back to me.  They are expensive.  That is why I chose you.  They are robots.  You are robot.  You will have special insight into problem.  You will understand how important and precious they are.”

I didn’t correct him, but I’d sent my share of robots to the scrapheap.  He greatly overestimated my respect for his menagerie of novelty drones.

“What if they’re already broken?” I asked.

“Why would anyone steal my robots to break them?”

“Parts?” I said.

He laughed.  “What good are parts?  They are nothing special.  Custom made, yes, but all very standard guts.  Ordered from catalogue.  Not even most expensive parts.  I am rich, but I am not stupid.  Easier to buy the parts yourself.  So if someone steals my dinosaurs, someone doesn’t steal them for parts.”

His logic was solid.  There was plenty of loose tech floating around the city.  If someone wanted the scrap, there were simpler ways to get it.

“You take case then,” said Alexandrov.  “You will find my robots.”

It was an order, not a question.  But he was right.  I took the job.  Jung and I rode back in our skimmer.  He drove.

“Are you okay working for this guy?” I asked.  “After the monkey comment?”

“Alexandrov’s a jackass,” he said, “but his money spends the same as anybody’s.  If we worked only for people we liked, we wouldn’t work at all.  And some of us don’t have rich girlfriends to pay our bills.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

I scanned through the police report Alexandrov had supplied.  There wasn’t much to it.  He’d awoken two days ago to discover his dinos missing .  No sign of damage or break-in.  The security system had been disabled.

“Inside job,” said Jung.

It added up, but so far, the cops hadn’t found any viable suspects among Alexandrov’s employees.  Most had alibis.  Those that didn’t seemed unlikely to be involved.  And those with a questionable background always had the same question.

Why would anyone steal five dinosaur drones and a caveman auto?

It’s why I’ll probably always be a “light” writer because I carry most of the markers of light writing.  I have humor, and it isn’t humor based on cruelty or vulgarity.  While some of my books have naughty language, most of them don’t.  And I find myself less inclined to use mature language as time goes on.  I don’t generally write gore.  I don’t generally write sex.

I’m not against these things.  There is no single correct way to tell a story, partly because what Person X finds distasteful or offensive, Person Y will find satisfying and delightful.  And as my previous post mentioned, I’m all for that.  The only problem is that nudity, violence, sexual content, and anything else you care to label as “mature content” isn’t innately mature.  It’s just a label for all the stuff we don’t like children watching.  But just because something is unsuitable for children that doesn’t make it mature.

I tend not to get into mature shows because they are beholden to certain requirements.  As happy as I am to have a mainstream fantasy show in The Game of Thrones on HBO, I’m also disappointed that, without the boobs and blood, nobody would probably watch it.  Only by adding gratuitous adult content does the show rise above being a nerd phenomenon.  If it was straight fantasy without these elements, it would be kid stuff, no matter how intelligent and well-written.

The false choice that comes with this is that if I express this thought, I will almost always come across as a prude.  But I don’t find blood and gore offensive.  I just find it boring for the most part.  I realize that, at heart, we are merely animals, and that violence and sex have tremendous appeal.  Even people who hate the stuff can’t stop thinking about it.  To me, the person who is captivated by mature content and the person who is repulsed by it are two sides of the same coin.  Both folks are often assigning way too much importance to the stuff.

Yet the paradox is that because people do this, it becomes important.  HBO’s entire brand is built on sex and swearing and blood.  With good reason too because without it, there’s not a whole lot to separate it from the other shows on television.  That’s not an indictment of the network because it’s worked for them.  And if someone wants some gratuitous sex and violence in their dramas, then it’s nice to have that need met.

But a lack of sex and violence doesn’t necessarily indicate kid’s stuff.  And sex and violence doesn’t always indicate maturity or realism.  It’s why I find myself dismayed by so many trends.  Whether it’s Nolan’s dreary take on Batman, HBO’s blood and sex drenched fantasies, or even Michael Bay’s robot gorefests, I am more and more irked by a culture that insists that gritty is cool and that grimdark is innately more valuable.

If it’s starting to sound as if I’m repeating myself in these posts, I’m sorry about that.  It’s just something I feel is worth talking about.  I don’t want mature content to go away, but I do find it has become more and more of a crutch.  Harley Quinn was a far more interesting character before she was half-naked.  The Transformers worked better for me when they were able to fight without tearing each other to pieces, spewing oil and metal like appliance splatterhouse fetish.  And the second you MUST have mature content to have a mature story is the moment you stop creating and start blindly following rules.

Yet how is The Incredibles not considered mature content when it’s about family, responsibility, the soul-crushing drudgery of living in a world that resents you for being special, insecurity, the strength we all have when we rely on each other, and the dangers of hubris?  How is Wall-E only a kid’s movie when it’s about loneliness and love?  How is How to Train your Dragon considered silly when it’s about finding your place in the world and healing old wounds?  How is Emperor Mollusk versus the Sinister Brain considered only a silly book when it has genocide in it as a major plot point?

The answer is obvious.  Without blood, without sex, without cruelty, random violence, or adult language, all the above lack the markers of maturity.  It doesn’t prevent them from being mature, but it does prevent them from being perceived as mature.  Just as if Game of Thrones removed the boobs and only implied its more horrendous violence, it would cease to be worthy of adult praise.  It’s a fact, but it’s a shame.

I don’t mean to imply that the show would be better without these things.  It would only be different, and in fact, it would be a relatively minor change.  It wouldn’t have to affect the story in any way.  It would be the same show, but it would also lose a lot of its street cred.  In that way, the boobs and blood are very important, and it’s why, to be perfectly honest, couldn’t ask the show to change a thing.  These gratuitous elements aren’t gratuitous at all.  They serve a very important purpose.  I know that.  Just as I know that without sex and violence in my own stuff, it’ll be a long time before I get taken seriously.

For the record, if HBO wanted to grimdark up a book of mine and transform it into an original series, I’d be on board.  So it’s not as if I’m trying to claim some intellectual or artistic high ground.  The very fact that there’s the notion of high ground at all is absurd to me.  It’s not about artistic integrity or anything of the like.  It’s only an observation on cultural perception.  Make of it what you will.

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,

Lee

Yet conflict is so ingrained in human nature that even in this one area where we should feel free to explore and experiment, we are constantly warring over which form of creative expression is more valid than another.  I imagine this is as old as time.  When the first caveman painted an image of a mammoth, I guarantee you that someone was offended by it.  And someone else thought it was “cute, but nothing to think about.”  And a third someone declared our painter a genius that would forever define the art of painting mammoths.  That’s how it works.  Creative expression and interpretation is such a personal act, it’s no wonder everyone sees something different.

What surprises me is how few of us have ever figured that out.  Maybe it’s because we’re trapped in our own heads, swimming in a sea of our own emotional baggage, but we have a hard time understanding that I am not you, you are not me, and that person is not that other person.  We experience our own thoughts so intimately, it’s impossible to imagine others not feeling the same thing.  And if others don’t, then there is something wrong with them.

This is found on every level of experience we have as humans, not just art.  Recently, a Republican congressman (or senator, I always got those two confused) was shown saying that there were at least “59 to 61 communist party members” in the legislature.  A collective gasp rose up from the audience.  It was, to me, absurd.  But then I realized that, for his audience, communists were a thing to be feared.  I don’t share that fear.  Not because I’m pro-communism, but because the word and concept doesn’t trigger much of any response in me.  I grew up during the Cold War.  I saw my share of generic evil Russian villains in fiction.  But then the whole thing petered out and communism seemed like a relic of yesteryear.  Sure, there’s still China and a few other countries, but the world is different today.  China is economically bound to us in a way the good ol’ U.S.S.R. never was.  All of this, of course, means nothing.  It just comes down to what these people found scary versus what I do.  It’s less about logic than about our own perceptions and emotions.

The reason art matters though is that it should be the one place we are allowed to indulge without fear of judgment because it’s the one area where we can experiment without consequence.  Politics, theology, economics, etc., these all are delicate issues.  We fight over these because we all want a world more to our liking.  Our fears and desires matter there because they have far reaching consequences.  Or that’s what we tell ourselves.  The world tends to go on regardless, but it does change, often in ways we don’t like or appreciate.

But art is specifically a playground designed to be without consequence.  Note that I don’t mean art is inconsequential, though our limited language makes it easy to get confused.  What I mean is that art is a place where our emotions can come out to play, and nobody has to get hurt.  Nobody should fear being judged for their artistic tastes because ultimately, it’s a healthy way to explore what it means to be human.

Note too that I’m not talking about controversial art.  I’m talking about all the art we enjoy.  Even the most shallow tripe has some value to someone.  I’ve never believed that art must be shocking to be valuable.  It need only be satisfying in some way.  Horror movies allow us to experience fear without having to be eaten by a shark.  Comedies allow us to laugh when we need it most.  Romances let us experience what it’s like to be loved.  Fantasy opens worlds of imagination.  And literary fiction allows us to be pretentious.

Whoops.  Kind of stepped on my point there.

We are all prone to judgment to things inexplicable to us.  I don’t know why anyone thinks The Dark Knight is an adequate (much less good) superhero movie.  But I don’t have to.  I only have to understand that it pushes the buttons of a lot of people.  Just not mine.  And in that way, it’s no different than most art, most fears, most joys.  I don’t listen to a lot of music, for example.  Or watch lawyer shows.  Or get into sprawling, epic fantasy.  I find very little enjoyable about these things.  They don’t speak to me.  But they speak to a lot of people, and it would be absurd to say these people were wrong.  Or that these things are bad.

True, we will debate and discuss these things, and we should.  I will say that I find most literary fiction unreadable, and I’m sure many, many people will disagree.  And the debate is fun to have and can even be informative and a great way to see the world through someone else’s eyes.  But at the end of the day, I will never be that person.  I will never be able to experience their life.  And it is unfair of me (or any of us) to diminish someone for liking art we find ridiculous, boring, shallow, grimdark, or whatever.  It’s presumptuous.

It’s also inevitable.

We can’t stop it, but we can at least be aware of it.  We can rant about how Twilight sucks, but we should also accept that it spoke to a hell of a lot of people.  I can say I’d rather get punched in the face repeatedly than read The Road, but that doesn’t mean the book is terrible.  And if I want to go on and on about how awesome Guyver 2: Dark Hero is, you can at least do me the favor of listening, even if you disagree.

Otherwise, the commies win.

Keelah Se’lai

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,

Lee

I love my wife and feel we are bound together in a strong and very personal way.  But I don’t know much about her work or her coworkers.  I don’t read every book she reads.  I don’t watch every show she watches.  I don’t know her thoughts.  We are two people who live with each other, who have built a life together, but we are not the same person.  We can never be the same person.

Sorry for the metaphysical musings.  I’m going somewhere with this.

I think our human assumption that things begin and end with us is one of the reasons writers love killing off characters and destroying worlds.  Probably not the only reason, but certainly, a big one.  It’s a creator acting out the ultimate self-centered view of his creations.  He / She no longer has any use for them so he / she might as well destroy them because without him / her, they have no reason to exist.

This isn’t always true.  Some stories are designed very clearly from the get go to be destructive.  Horror stories, dark dystopian fiction, apocalyptic fiction, and so on.  Some universes and characters were made to die, and it’s a legitimate and valid thing to do.

But many stories aren’t made for that and were never intended for it.  My stories aren’t dark in this way.  Most of them could easily have sequels or be part of a series.  Just because I choose not to pursue that option doesn’t mean I have to destroy the characters and their worlds.  Those characters and worlds are allowed to go on without me.  I don’t mind.  In fact, I assume they do.

It’s a weird thought, but in my head, even if I never write a sequel to anything, I see the characters carrying on with their lives.  I can’t imagine them standing around, waiting for my return.  They never seem like my puppets.  They’re collaborators, people I met at some point and worked with, but who don’t need me to exist anymore.  And I could no more casually kill them off than I could push a button that killed a random real life person.

Maybe that’s odd.  Maybe it’s because I feel that, despite my role in their initial creation, I am not their creator.  They might be fictional, but they’re no less real, no less mysterious and beautiful, than all the real people I know.  They’re still grappling with their own concerns, their triumphs and tragedies.  And I’m rooting for them.  I want the best for them.  I want them to be happy or at least to have that shot at happiness.

One of the reasons I chose to skip Mass Effect 3 is that I have no interest in a conclusion that changes everything about that universe.  I realize that this is the “final” game of the series, and that usually means something incredibly dramatic and game changing has to take place.  Characters have to die.  And everything has to be be altered forever.  I don’t know what compels us to do that.  I wouldn’t be bothered if in ME3 if the Reapers were destroyed and Shepherd and crew walk into the sunset.  Even if they never made another ME game, I wouldn’t mind at all if I could assume that Shepherd was still out there, fighting the good fight, defending the universe.  And just because Garrus might be leaving my life, it doesn’t mean he has to die.

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m not saying I want ME3 to be full of rainbows and puppies, where nothing tragic happens, but if you’re going to kill off characters I’ve grown to love and destroy a universe I’m fond of, you shouldn’t do it just because you can.  You shouldn’t crush a world I love simply because it’s not allowed to exist because you’re not telling stories with it.

The universe, even universes we’ve created ourselves, should have more value than that.

I’ve grappled with this dilemma for a while now.  It’s a complex issue, I can’t help but feel that part of it comes down to our own self-centered natures.  It just makes sense to us for our worlds to vanish once we’re done with them.  Just as it makes sense that our apocalypse of choice is just around the corner.  Maybe Jesus is coming back.  Maybe an asteroid.  Maybe the mole people will burst out of the ground and destroy us all.  But something will see to it that the world ends when I do.  Because without me, what’s the point of it existing at all?

Like I said.  It’s complicated.  And by no means do I think I’ve even scratched the surface of this topic, but it’s merely some thoughts I had floating around in my head.  Make of them what you will.

Keelah Se’lai

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,

Lee

To paraphrase Fight Club, given a long enough timeline, the odds of a female character being reduced to fanservice is 100 percent.

This is why Princess Leia is so damned important.  She is that rare female protagonist in mainstream sci fi that is more than just a pretty face.  Oh, I’m sure there are others, but not a heck of a lot that spring to mind immediately.  Leia dominates the mainstream in a way that few female characters can, and she did so for decades without having to be a sex symbol.  Yet like any female character, she has always struggled against the desire of society at large to box her into that package.  And Slave Girl Leia is where this becomes a problem.

Let’s be clear.  In Return of the Jedi, I’m okay with Slave Girl Leia.  Is it pandering a little?  Yes.  For two movies, Carrie Fisher dressed like any of the male protagonists in a way that downplayed her girlishness.  Even in the first film, where she’s dressed in a gown sort of thing, it doesn’t reveal much.  This is why when we see her in Jedi it makes such a tremendous impression.  We have been conditioned over the years to assume only plain girls don’t show off what they’ve got.  Yet Leia doesn’t even show off a spot of cleavage in the first two films.  Furthermore, once she’s out of her slave girl outfit in Jedi, she goes right back to her traditional style, which is practical clothes and a practical hairstyle.  Leia is a freedom fighter, and, unlike many female protagonists, you can see that by the way she dresses.

But despite a bit of pandering, Slave Girl Leia makes a certain sense.  Jabba the Hutt is a jerk, and it’s exactly the sort of thing he would do.  It might be an excuse to get Leia half-naked, and that could be unforgivable.  Except that Leia then goes on to kill Jabba.  She is only his “slave” for as long as it suits her purposes, and when the time comes, she strangles the bastard with the very chain he used to “hold” her.  It is one of the defining moments of the entire Star Wars universe.  It reminds us that Leia is not merely a fetish in a metal bikini.  She’s a fighter, a strong capable character who Jabba fatally underestimates.  It’s also a great play on audience expectations.

Traditionally, Leia would need Luke or Han to rescue her.  That wouldn’t be so bad in this case because the characters in Star Wars rescue each other all the time.  How often does Han pull Luke out of the fire (or stuff him in the tauntaun)?  If Leia was rescued, it wouldn’t seem especially sexist or wrong in the story being told.  It would just be allies and friends helping each other.

But even so, Leia doesn’t need you to rescue her in this situation, and it’s one of the series’s most wonderful moments.  It allows a strong character to remain strong.  And, if you think about it, the entire rescue of Han Solo puts him in the traditional female role.  He’s blinded, mostly helpless, and accomplishes very little.  Meanwhile, Luke beats up a whole ship full of thugs.  And Leia, with nothing more than a chain and a will to fight, kills the first major villain of the film.

Though I have my problems with the Star Wars prequels, don’t give a damn about the expanded universe, and think that Star Wars as a whole is an empty product at this point, I will say I enjoy the hell out of the original films and think this particular scene manages to make Leia both an icon of kickass and a sex symbol at the same time.  And that’s quite a rare feat.

I know that Slave Girl Leia is a thing now.  Often, just an excuse for pretty women to dress up in sexy costumes for no other reason than we tend to want pretty women to dress up in sexy costumes.  And I’m okay with that because underneath it, emulating Leia isn’t such a bad thing.  It reminds us that a woman can be sexy and still kick butt, and that just because she’s half-naked that doesn’t mean she’s a victim or a toy.  (It’s the same reason I love Power Girl, who is a sexy superhero but also, a strong character who kicks butt.)

And then along comes Kinect Star Wars for Xbox360, and I’m reminded why it’s so tough being a female in this world.  Or any other.

For those of you who haven’t heard, Kineck Star Wars is a game built upon the Kinect motion controller system based on games played in a Star Wars setting.  So you swing your lightsaber, you attack people as a rancor, and you otherwise play games based on Star Wars.  I have no problem with that.  It’s not my bag, but so what?

The problem is that there are dance offs.  Putting aside how out of place these seem in the Star Wars universe or that it is something out of a fever dream to hear pop songs lyrically altered to a Star Wars theme, it’s mostly silly and harmless.  Or it should be.  But then you watch as some of the defining elements of the Star Wars stories are gleefully marginalized by the entire thing.  Han Solo being frozen in carbonite was a defining dark moment for the films, and it is somehow cheapened by turning it into a dance number.  And was anyone yearning to watch Boba Fett shake his groove thang?

Worst though, by far, is a moment where Slave Girl Leia willingly takes off her chain and dances for Jabba the Hutt.  In one instant, everything wonderful about the character is taken away from her.  She stops being the strong character she was and becomes nothing more than the worst sort of fetish.

It is unforgivable.

It is also in incredibly poor taste when you think about it.  Star Wars shouldn’t be about dancing girls parading themselves before a drug kingpin.  Even in the original Jedi, being a dancing girl at Jabba’s palace is portrayed as a horrible fate.  If you’re unlucky, you get fed to a rancor.  If you’re really unlucky, you get stuck dancing for Jabba.  It is one of those rare moments where enslavement is portrayed as a genuinely terrible thing.

Now, it’s a dance number.

There will be those who think I’m reading too much into this, and there’s little doubt that this is a shameful moment in Star Wars history that will eventually be forgotten.  Just a silly little video game.  If Jabba the Hutt couldn’t keep Leia down, this probably won’t either.  But it doesn’t change the fact that, for some, this will be their first exposure to Leia and a defining one at that.  One of the reasons Slave Girl Leia is acceptable is by the time we get to the metal bikini, we’ve already met her and know so much about her.  It is impossible for us to think of her as merely a sexual object, a bit of fanservice.  But this game takes all that and casts it aside.

Star Wars has committed a lot of sins in recent years, but nothing quite like this.  And we, as a society, are far poorer for it.

Keelah Se’lai

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,

And may The Force be with you.

Lee

The term “light” comes with certain expectations and baggage.  Nothing strange about that.  Every label given to us comes with that stuff, and you can’t avoid it.  Labels are designed to make things easier, and while there’s a lot of negative examples (hard and soft racism, cultural categorization, etc.), it’s also a necessary evil.  The only problem is when labels become absolute or when they put up walls rather than help bridge gaps.

“Light” has multiple meanings.  First and foremost, it tends to mean “easily accessible”.  That’s not so bad.  I’d like to think I write accessible books that are easy to read.  It’s one of my goals as a writer.  I’m never been devoted to manufacturing complicated language.  I enjoy a good turn of phrase and a poetic expression, but if a story is more determined to impress me with its vocabulary and powers of metaphor, I’m probably not interested.  No judgment on the quality of such stories.  Everyone has their own mind, their own desires, their own artistic appetites.  But for me, books that seem too “literary” (for lack of a better term) tend to lose me.  Not always, but often enough that I’m not surprised by it.

“Light” and “Literary” don’t usually go together.  They don’t have to be mutually exclusive, but they almost always are.  This brings me to the second definition of “light”.  It often means “frivolous” or “frothy”, an enjoyable but empty treat.  It’s this definition that troubles me.  And I’m not just referring to my own novels, but to many fine stories I’ve enjoyed over the years.  Too often, accessible fiction is deemed weightless.  But accessible doesn’t have to mean soulless.  And just because a story is hard to absorb that doesn’t make it high art.

The mistake folks seem to make most often is assuming that anything readily consumed and enjoyed is somehow not good for us.  True art, like our vegetables, should be less tasty, more demanding.  If we like it, it has to be bad for us.  Often, high literature strikes me as deliberately inedible in order to earn its respect.  Not always.  Certainly, a story can be difficult to absorb (and often should be).  But just because a story is depressing or difficult to enjoy doesn’t make it art, and just because a story is easy to read / view doesn’t mean it’s cotton candy.

Keeping with the vegetable metaphor, I like to think of my stories as “light and filling”.  They’re vegetables but properly prepared, sauteed and made yummy, but underneath, they still have nutritional content.  You partake of the meal gladly and afterward, maybe realize you ate something worthwhile.  Even if you don’t, it doesn’t change the fact that maybe someone slipped you some vegetables anyway and you’re probably better off for it.  And if you just enjoyed the meal as a delicious snack, I can live with that too.

Making something easy to enjoy is not easy.  That’s all I want to really say.  So if someone wants to label me a “light” writer because they gleefully read my books without hesitation, I take it as the grand compliment it is.  But if someone wants to suggest I’m “light” because my stories are simple to write, this is where we run into problems.  Despite the initial reactions one might get from hearing what my stories are about (space squids, country-fried vampires, minotaur teens with body issues), my stories have never been intended to be confectioneries.  They’re tasty, sure, but they matter, if only to me.  (And, of course, you, my loyal fans.)

It’s only a label, and I try not to take it too seriously.  Just something I thought I’d comment on.  Thanks for reading, folks, as always.

(Next post will be something NOT about writing.  Unless that’s what you really, really want.  Never let it be said I don’t listen to the people.)

Keelah Se’lai

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,

LEE

NOTE:  I said relatively.  It still isn’t all that easy.

But in my limited experience, the stumbling block for aspiring writers is found in the subject of characters.  If the characters have any life in them at all, then most of your work is done.  A writer who has a solid flair for dialogue has a flat out better chance at getting published than one who crafts complex plots.

The best way to know if you know your characters is to have them simply talk to each other.  Can they chat freely?  Do they constantly refer to plot points rather than their own opinions.  Outside of the story you’ve placed them in, do they have any larger objectives, emotional baggage, an outlook beyond conquering their current predicaments?  If they don’t, then you probably dropped the ball.

The test is to put two characters (any two you’ve created, even if they don’t belong in the same story), stick them in a room, and see if they can freely converse.  You can’t plan out the conversation.  That’s cheating.  It’s also entirely missing the point.  For fictional characters to have any semblance of life, they should be able to function spontaneously, just as real people do.  If your characters only work in the cozy predictability of their pre-arranged universe, they aren’t really characters at all.  They’re puppets, dancing to your tune.

All great characters have their own life.  Kermit the frog isn’t a real person, but we can all imagine talking to him.  Bugs Bunny, Superman, Indiana Jones, Jane Eyre, and a thousand other classic characters all exist beyond their artist’s imagination because they have managed to take on a life of their own.  Just as we know that calling Miss Piggy fat is sure to get you a karate chop, and that Optimus Prime is sure to say something inspiring in our darkest hour.  Or that Emperor Palpatine will say something snide and R2D2 will say something snarky.  Yes, even R2D2, with dialogue that is entirely beeps, is snarky.

Which brings me to my second point.  The specifics of the dialogue are less important than the general vibe the characters will put out.  If a character has a consistent vibe, then they will ring true.  This is why plot is lousy for creating characters.  Plot doesn’t give a damn about consistency.  Plot just wants interesting stuff to happen.  And when characters work for the plot, they’ll do pretty much any stupid thing to keep conflict going.  In one scene, they might be strong and self-reliant.  In the next, they might be timid and docile.  Whatever the plot wants.

Strong characters have a tendency to confound the plot.  Strong, consistent characters will often get in the way of keeping things interesting.  They have their own needs, and they couldn’t give a damn about the plot.  You can force them to do what you want, but only if you’re willing to jump into their heads and pull the levers and switches yourself, reducing them to automatons.  Honestly, many in your audience won’t care.  Most won’t even notice.  You can get away with a lot of forced characterization if the result is entertaining, but I prefer characters who have will of their own.

Again, I refer to the Star Wars prequels.  Not because they’re bad films.  They are, at worst, average.  But they suffer because the characters lack that central characterization that makes them work.  No one in the prequel exists as a person.  All are merely living plot points being pushed around an outline.  Anakin falls because he’s supposed to.  Amidala loves him because that’s her job.  The Emperor is evil because evil is what he does.  And the Jedi are exterminated because story demands it.

And yet none of that matters.  This is because Star Wars cheats a bit by having a built-in fanbase that will like it no matter what, but it’s also because the prequels are mostly excuses for cool lightsaber fights.  Nothing wrong with that.

(Apologies for the Star Wars negativity, folks, but they do tend to illustrate my points when it comes to lifeless writing.)

Good characters are consistent characters.  Consistent characters have solid emotional weight behind them.  They might not always have clear goals (just like real people), but they have reliable reactions.  Those reactions might screw with your story, but it’s better to twist a story to fit characters than to twist characters to fit story because plot is far more flexible than characterization.

Done right, solid characters will carry a story, even if it isn’t where you thought that story was heading.  Heck, sometimes a great character can make your story better than you ever thought it could be.  I’ll give credit to my characters for doing a lot of the heavy lifting, for opening doors I never planned on going through, for exploring worlds I never intended.  Every time they do, I try to remember to thank them for it.  They might be a pain in my ass sometimes, but they usually know what they’re doing.

And if they don’t, I can always fix it in edits.

Keelah Se’lai

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,

Lee