So there's something that's been on my mind for the past couple of days, as the result of two different conversations with two different people. In the first instance, I was talking about the characters in my book and realized that, taken in a certain context, my characters really represent a pretty powerful metaphor for the issues of one's sexual identity and whether gender is something defined by a person's body, or by the mental image one has for one's self.
In the other conversation, we were talking about Avatar, and whether it was "too preachy."
Now, my thoughts on the matter (I'm building to a larger point, don't worry) is that for a movie to be "preachy," the message has to be the point. There are undeniably movies that have a message, that tell a certain story because the creator wants the audience to understand and hopefully come to accept his or her personal view. The message is the focus, it's the entire purpose for the movie. The story is entirely a device for conveying that message.
On the other hand, you have movies in which the message is entirely incidental to the message that one takes away from the film. Avatar, in my opinion, is a good example of this. While it certainly has all the tropes in place about overthrowing the evil capitalistic machine that seeks to despoil the pristine natural world, I don't think James Cameron really wants us to walk out of his movie and run off to the rainforest to fight logging or whatever. All of the tropes invoked, despite perhaps conveying that particular message, were largely inconsequential; they happened only because that's the particular story Cameron wanted to tell.
One might say that a writer or director or creative person should be cognizant of the message that invariably appears in their works. If it wasn't Cameron's intention to portray modernity as an evil force in Avatar, he shouldn't have made them all seem like such bastards. He should have told a different story, or been more careful about the story he was telling.
I don't think that's fair, though. Speaking entirely from the perspective of a creative type, you tell the story that you want to tell. You tell the story that's on your mind, in your heart, the one you feel passionately about. You make the story that you want to make. So, my little novel about a fallen angel turns out to have some powerful metaphors about transgendered individuals and perceptions of sexual identity. Okay. Awesome. That doesn't mean that's why I wrote it, and that doesn't mean that's what I'm trying to tell people who will read my story. It's just something that happened as a result of the particular story I chose to tell.
The reality is that when you make something, be it a movie or a novel, as soon as you release it into the world, it's no longer yours. As soon as it enters the mind of your reader, or your audience, it becomes theirs to do with as they will (violations of copyright notwithstanding, of course). They can read into it how they wish, take away from it whatever they wish to take away from it. You can tell them they are wrong, that such a message was not your intent, and you might well be right... but that won't stop them. It shouldn't stop them, because all too often, the work in question is larger than the creator. The work will have layers that the creator never even dreamed existed, because in so many ways, the creator is little more than a conduit for the story itself, the means by which the story is brought into the world.
If a movie specifically tells me to run out and save all the trees, and the director made said movie with that specific goal in mind, okay, fine. That's the message. But if a director makes a movie about a beautiful natural world and an invading force, and the point of the story is to become engaged with the characters and the world he or she has created, then the message is largely inconsequential. My inadvertent metaphor about sexual identity does not mean I have personal opinions on the matter, or that I want my readers to embrace my opinions. It's just something that happened, it's a sort of baggage that carries along as a result of invoking storytelling tropes and using a shared language in which volumes of meaning are often embodied in something as small as a single word choice.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Thoughts On Day One
I'm going to go on record as saying that a good beer really can make or break the writing experience for me. I don't know how it works for you, but for me? Nothing beats having that bottle on the desk next to my monitor. I'm not sure if it's the ritual of it, or the fact that it's an image so deeply ingrained in the popular culture, or if I just really like beer, but it really helps.
No, really. When you get stuck on a scene, and you know you can nail it, if you can just get the words right, having that distraction really helps take my mind off the fact that, damn it, I'm stuck. Because realizing that you're stuck is the quickest way to get even more stuck... to get stucker... or whatever the fuck you call it.
If you're curious, tonight, I was drinking Drop Top Amber Ale. I'm told by people who know things about this sort of thing that this beer is brewed right here in Tucson. If it is, and you're in Tucson, you should look for some. If not, you have my condolences, as it's a very good beer.
I was at the supermarket today with my mom, doing some shopping as is the custom in such establishments. It's sort of become a ritual for us, to do our shopping together, because both of us absolutely hate shopping, me especially. So it's become equal parts act of necessity (everybody's gotta eat, after all) equal parts opportunity to spend some time together, since I find that it becomes all too easy to slip into my own little world if I don't work to remain connected to my family.
Anyway, the first time we did this little shopping trip together, I remember walking around in this, I don't know what you'd call it. This daze. This ennui. I didn't care about being there. I didn't have anything to say. I wasn't angry, wasn't sad, wasn't anything. My mom said she was worried about me, said I seemed like I was depressed. Said I should really go talk to a doctor, you know, just to get everything checked out. I can't say I disagree with her opinion, since I don't have anything against doctors even though I stubbornly refuse to visit them. Don't ask me why, I don't have a reason.
And yes, if you're wondering, this particular shopping trip took place before I'd rededicated myself to the personal goal of "Write Every Day."
So, tonight was our biweekly (wait, is biweekly every week, or twice a week? I can never remember) and while we're cruising the shelves, filling our respective carts, I asked my mom if I seemed better than the last time we were out. We'd talked a few times about how I'd been feeling, so she knows that I'd begun writing again. She said the change that writing has on my personality is amazing. I joked that I didn't know whether I should be grateful that I know how to manage my depression so effectively, or if I should be distressed that I depend on writing to maintain my mental health.
I still don't actually know which I should be.
If there's a point in this rambling little anecdote, it's that I like feeling this way. Even more than I like the feeling of writing, even more than I like seeing the story develop and the characters come to life, even more than I like the happy little fantasies about publishing and having people read my story, I like feeling good. I like feeling proud of myself, I like feeling positive. I like not being miserable.
I like being me. I like being the me that feels complete and fulfilled, the me that feels like he's doing what he should be doing with his life. That's a rare thing, I think, a comfortable assurance that some people may spend their entire lives looking for. I'm not saying that I've got it all figured out yet, or that this is the only thing I'm ever going to do, or the only thing that I was meant to do. I mean, for one thing, that makes it sound like I have a destiny, and I certainly don't believe in that.
And, Mom, I know that you read this from time to time, although it might be several days or weeks before you make it to this entry. When you do read it, I want you to remember what I told you tonight, about being my inspiration, not for my characters or for my story, but for inspiring me to make the commitment to Write Every Day. Like I told you before, you're the example I have for not stopping even though sometimes I really, really want to stop.
You're the one who keeps me from going back to Day One, and the posts in this blog are evidence of how much that means to me. And you know what? Even if I do falter, even if I do fail, even I do quit... you're also my inspiration for climbing back up and starting at Day One all over again.
No, really. When you get stuck on a scene, and you know you can nail it, if you can just get the words right, having that distraction really helps take my mind off the fact that, damn it, I'm stuck. Because realizing that you're stuck is the quickest way to get even more stuck... to get stucker... or whatever the fuck you call it.
If you're curious, tonight, I was drinking Drop Top Amber Ale. I'm told by people who know things about this sort of thing that this beer is brewed right here in Tucson. If it is, and you're in Tucson, you should look for some. If not, you have my condolences, as it's a very good beer.
I was at the supermarket today with my mom, doing some shopping as is the custom in such establishments. It's sort of become a ritual for us, to do our shopping together, because both of us absolutely hate shopping, me especially. So it's become equal parts act of necessity (everybody's gotta eat, after all) equal parts opportunity to spend some time together, since I find that it becomes all too easy to slip into my own little world if I don't work to remain connected to my family.
Anyway, the first time we did this little shopping trip together, I remember walking around in this, I don't know what you'd call it. This daze. This ennui. I didn't care about being there. I didn't have anything to say. I wasn't angry, wasn't sad, wasn't anything. My mom said she was worried about me, said I seemed like I was depressed. Said I should really go talk to a doctor, you know, just to get everything checked out. I can't say I disagree with her opinion, since I don't have anything against doctors even though I stubbornly refuse to visit them. Don't ask me why, I don't have a reason.
And yes, if you're wondering, this particular shopping trip took place before I'd rededicated myself to the personal goal of "Write Every Day."
So, tonight was our biweekly (wait, is biweekly every week, or twice a week? I can never remember) and while we're cruising the shelves, filling our respective carts, I asked my mom if I seemed better than the last time we were out. We'd talked a few times about how I'd been feeling, so she knows that I'd begun writing again. She said the change that writing has on my personality is amazing. I joked that I didn't know whether I should be grateful that I know how to manage my depression so effectively, or if I should be distressed that I depend on writing to maintain my mental health.
I still don't actually know which I should be.
If there's a point in this rambling little anecdote, it's that I like feeling this way. Even more than I like the feeling of writing, even more than I like seeing the story develop and the characters come to life, even more than I like the happy little fantasies about publishing and having people read my story, I like feeling good. I like feeling proud of myself, I like feeling positive. I like not being miserable.
I like being me. I like being the me that feels complete and fulfilled, the me that feels like he's doing what he should be doing with his life. That's a rare thing, I think, a comfortable assurance that some people may spend their entire lives looking for. I'm not saying that I've got it all figured out yet, or that this is the only thing I'm ever going to do, or the only thing that I was meant to do. I mean, for one thing, that makes it sound like I have a destiny, and I certainly don't believe in that.
And, Mom, I know that you read this from time to time, although it might be several days or weeks before you make it to this entry. When you do read it, I want you to remember what I told you tonight, about being my inspiration, not for my characters or for my story, but for inspiring me to make the commitment to Write Every Day. Like I told you before, you're the example I have for not stopping even though sometimes I really, really want to stop.
You're the one who keeps me from going back to Day One, and the posts in this blog are evidence of how much that means to me. And you know what? Even if I do falter, even if I do fail, even I do quit... you're also my inspiration for climbing back up and starting at Day One all over again.
Friday, February 5, 2010
The Mind Maelstrom
Some days, I forget that I have a blog.
Actually, that's not true. Certainly, there are days where I wish I didn't have a blog. Just like there are days where I wish I didn't want so badly to write and publish a novel. But those are just some days, and usually, they're rare days. Ironically enough, the secret to making myself feel better about those days is to write in my blog and work on my novel, because then these two things are no longer a source of anxiety and personal consternation, but become achievements that I can take pride in.
Speaking of pride (which is a Mortal Sin, or so I'm told), I'm proud of myself for not yet breaking my goal of "Write Every Day." It was particular difficult last night, when the D&D game didn't break until about 12:30 and I didn't even sit down to write until about 1 AM. The fact that I did it even though I was tired, even though I really, really, really didn't want to do it has done a lot for my personal morale. The fact that I didn't reach the thousand work mark, which is sort of my informal daily milestone, doesn't even bother me that much.
I didn't reach the 1k goal tonight, either, although I rationalized it by saying that 800 or so words is pretty close to a thousand, and I had to write a scene for my fiction class, and at least I put in a pretty solid effort, so my stupid fucking neurotic voice can just shut its stupid mouth and go back to the dark corner of my mind. Yeah, I should that part of... myself. Awesome.
I have a pretty back toothache that seems to be getting steadily worse. Going to be paying a visit to the dentist tomorrow, even though I really don't like dentists. I especially didn't like my last one, with his whole "fuck painkillers, you'll barely even feel the drill" mentality when it came to drilling cavities. Uh, no fucking thank you, doc, in my book, there's a pretty big difference between "hardly" and "not." For example, I'd much rather be "not dead" or "not in pain" than "barely dead" or "barely in pain."
Got a good recommendation for a new place, though, so tomorrow, we'll go see what's what. I'm certain that there will be bad news. Like, not just the usual "you have cavities" bad news, but something along the lines of "the entire inside of your upper jaw is rotting from the inside out and will have to be surgically removed. Don't worry, you'll barely even notice it's gone."
Damn it, there's that word again.
Is it a bad sign that I really wished I had a beer to enjoy while I was working on my novel tonight? At the time, I tried to rationalize that a drink would have giving me something to occupy my mind during the pauses while I'd think about what the next line should be. Now, though, I'm not so sure the desire is quite that innocent.
I suppose it's a good sign that I didn't just go straight for the bottle of Crown Royal, yeah? That'd be the sign of a truly hardened, horribly cliched alcoholic writer.
Damn it, now I'm thinking about that bottle of Crown.
Actually, that's not true. Certainly, there are days where I wish I didn't have a blog. Just like there are days where I wish I didn't want so badly to write and publish a novel. But those are just some days, and usually, they're rare days. Ironically enough, the secret to making myself feel better about those days is to write in my blog and work on my novel, because then these two things are no longer a source of anxiety and personal consternation, but become achievements that I can take pride in.
Speaking of pride (which is a Mortal Sin, or so I'm told), I'm proud of myself for not yet breaking my goal of "Write Every Day." It was particular difficult last night, when the D&D game didn't break until about 12:30 and I didn't even sit down to write until about 1 AM. The fact that I did it even though I was tired, even though I really, really, really didn't want to do it has done a lot for my personal morale. The fact that I didn't reach the thousand work mark, which is sort of my informal daily milestone, doesn't even bother me that much.
I didn't reach the 1k goal tonight, either, although I rationalized it by saying that 800 or so words is pretty close to a thousand, and I had to write a scene for my fiction class, and at least I put in a pretty solid effort, so my stupid fucking neurotic voice can just shut its stupid mouth and go back to the dark corner of my mind. Yeah, I should that part of... myself. Awesome.
I have a pretty back toothache that seems to be getting steadily worse. Going to be paying a visit to the dentist tomorrow, even though I really don't like dentists. I especially didn't like my last one, with his whole "fuck painkillers, you'll barely even feel the drill" mentality when it came to drilling cavities. Uh, no fucking thank you, doc, in my book, there's a pretty big difference between "hardly" and "not." For example, I'd much rather be "not dead" or "not in pain" than "barely dead" or "barely in pain."
Got a good recommendation for a new place, though, so tomorrow, we'll go see what's what. I'm certain that there will be bad news. Like, not just the usual "you have cavities" bad news, but something along the lines of "the entire inside of your upper jaw is rotting from the inside out and will have to be surgically removed. Don't worry, you'll barely even notice it's gone."
Damn it, there's that word again.
Is it a bad sign that I really wished I had a beer to enjoy while I was working on my novel tonight? At the time, I tried to rationalize that a drink would have giving me something to occupy my mind during the pauses while I'd think about what the next line should be. Now, though, I'm not so sure the desire is quite that innocent.
I suppose it's a good sign that I didn't just go straight for the bottle of Crown Royal, yeah? That'd be the sign of a truly hardened, horribly cliched alcoholic writer.
Damn it, now I'm thinking about that bottle of Crown.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
There's A Door And There's A Key
It's amazing how good it feels, to be doing this again. To feel confident about myself and to have this sense of certainty, when I wonder if I'm living my life the way I'm supposed to be, if it's the "right" way. Rarely are we able to have any such assurances, I think, so I'm happy to take whatever I can get.
Lately, I've been thinking about whether or not I should try to release my current novel as two separate works, rather than the single massive volume it's shaping into. I originally decided to continue the manuscript because I felt that I wasn't yet ready to stop telling the story, and also because I felt the first work was just a little bit too short. But now as I get further and further into the new narrator and the new work, it's really begun to take on a life of its own. That's a good thing, I think, it shows a certain level of organic growth in the characters and my understanding of them. But does that mean that this is a new novel?
I wonder, when I do go back and do the editing process, will I find myself adding here and there so much that it increases my manuscript to an acceptable "novel length?" Or will I cut more than I add? Or should I even bother worrying about such things? The point, after all, is not to try to write towards some arbitrary number of pages or words, but to compose until the story is done. Done could be at 50,000 words or 100,000.
I'm not going to stop writing on what I've been referring to more and more as "Book II." But maybe it's time to embrace that it's really going to be its own book. Maybe it's time to do some editing even as I keep going with the writing. It's a thought that makes me both anxious and excited. Excited, because really, how cool would it be to have one manuscript done and be able to say I'm working on another one; that's like seriously heavy writer dedication there.
Anxious, because, let's face it, the creative part, the writing part... that's the best part. Editing is more work than anything, and the idea of trying to get published? Well, as much as I want to get this story out of my hands and into the world, the idea of publishing is pretty terrifying. Rejection will be there. You can bet your ass on that. Rejection is part of life, whether you are a writer or not. Writers just seem to get the dubious advantage of having their rejections occur in a codified and tangible letter that makes the whole thing seem more real.
So that's where my head is at tonight. I'm glad to be writing and I'm thinking about all of these different things about what to do with this story of mine, this baby that I've been... working on doesn't really sound like the right word. One doesn't "do work" on a baby. But the reality is that this is my baby, this thing has been in my mind and in my dreams and on my fingertips for a good few months now. When is it time to start the process of letting go, of preparing it to be sent off into the world?
I wonder if this is what parents go through. I wouldn't know, myself, not being one. But if it is, wow.
Stressful doesn't even begin to cover it.
Lately, I've been thinking about whether or not I should try to release my current novel as two separate works, rather than the single massive volume it's shaping into. I originally decided to continue the manuscript because I felt that I wasn't yet ready to stop telling the story, and also because I felt the first work was just a little bit too short. But now as I get further and further into the new narrator and the new work, it's really begun to take on a life of its own. That's a good thing, I think, it shows a certain level of organic growth in the characters and my understanding of them. But does that mean that this is a new novel?
I wonder, when I do go back and do the editing process, will I find myself adding here and there so much that it increases my manuscript to an acceptable "novel length?" Or will I cut more than I add? Or should I even bother worrying about such things? The point, after all, is not to try to write towards some arbitrary number of pages or words, but to compose until the story is done. Done could be at 50,000 words or 100,000.
I'm not going to stop writing on what I've been referring to more and more as "Book II." But maybe it's time to embrace that it's really going to be its own book. Maybe it's time to do some editing even as I keep going with the writing. It's a thought that makes me both anxious and excited. Excited, because really, how cool would it be to have one manuscript done and be able to say I'm working on another one; that's like seriously heavy writer dedication there.
Anxious, because, let's face it, the creative part, the writing part... that's the best part. Editing is more work than anything, and the idea of trying to get published? Well, as much as I want to get this story out of my hands and into the world, the idea of publishing is pretty terrifying. Rejection will be there. You can bet your ass on that. Rejection is part of life, whether you are a writer or not. Writers just seem to get the dubious advantage of having their rejections occur in a codified and tangible letter that makes the whole thing seem more real.
So that's where my head is at tonight. I'm glad to be writing and I'm thinking about all of these different things about what to do with this story of mine, this baby that I've been... working on doesn't really sound like the right word. One doesn't "do work" on a baby. But the reality is that this is my baby, this thing has been in my mind and in my dreams and on my fingertips for a good few months now. When is it time to start the process of letting go, of preparing it to be sent off into the world?
I wonder if this is what parents go through. I wouldn't know, myself, not being one. But if it is, wow.
Stressful doesn't even begin to cover it.
Monday, February 1, 2010
On Gaming
So it looks like seven posts per month is going to be the new standard? I'll be honest, I'm not sure if I should aim for seven for February so the archive will have a nice sort of symmetry, or focus on getting back on track, writin as much as I can as often as I can. The former would certainly feed my latent OCD tendencies, while the latter would produce better writing and a better me, since I'm happier when I'm writing (as we've discussed) and I've noticed that when I'm being prolific, it shows no matter what I'm working on. I get more polished, more crisp, more focused, when I'm writing every day. That's not just my own opinion either, but something that I've had people tell me. When I work every day, when I make the commitment to do this every day, it shows in the final product. And that's worthwhile.
I don't know if this happens to other people, but I find myself engaging in all kinds of mental gymnastics when it comes to my work. I spend far too much time thinking about what kind of music produces the best writing, whether what I ate that day has any effect on my creativity, whether I played any video games, and on and on and on. To some extent, I've noticed a few correlations, especially in the video game connection, although oddly, not quite in the way you'd expect.
It'd be entirely reasonable to assume that playing video games leads to a reduced work output as I struggle to balance the need to write with the desire to game. And yet, I've come to realize that it's not so much the time I spend gaming, but what I'm playing that really effects how I feel about writing and how much writing I'll manage to get done. In particular, single player games, especially those with strong stories, really serve to inspire me and motivate me to tell my own stories; Dragon Age, in particular served as a great resource when I'd get stuck on trying to make a character's voice sound distinctive.
On the other hand, multiplayer games (both of the MMO and competitive variety) absolutely murder my work ethic. I know that I definitely went on a bit of a spree with Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2, and that for a few weeks there, I was playing it as often as I could and far more than I should have been. As I showed with the Dragon Age example, I don't think that games are necessarily damaging to my work... they can sometimes be a helpful resource for getting my mind thinking and coming up with my own characters and ideas. But multiplayer games... that's another story, if you'll pardon the lame ass pun.
In multiplayer games, I'm not thinking about characters, or voices, or story. I'm thinking about the game, about winning, about doing whatever it takes to play as hard as I can and do the best that I can. And that competitive drive, that desire to win shuts down the other parts of my brain. There's no voice when I'm playing to win, there's no pondering about what sort of epic narrative might be spawned from my struggle; there's only me, and my opponents, and my objective. Nothing else.
The other problem with the multiplayer games is that they're terrible time sinks in a way that Dragon Age and other single player games could never be. That seems a little bit odd, since it's the single player RPGs that get the reputation for being massive, 60 hours or more a playthrough. The problem, though, is that with Dragon Age, yeah, I'd play it for a long stretch at a time, but it was easier to pace myself, easier to say, "okay, I've played enough for tonight." This happened for a few reasons; within the context of the story being told, there were moments of rising action, climax, and falling action, as you moved from chapter to chapter in that particular narrative, and so there were natural stopping points where it was okay to sign off for the night. Also, although I was very, very excited to complete the game and find out "what happens," there's also the sobering knowledge that part of the thrill in a single player game is the feeling you get when everything's new, when you don't know how it's going to end or what's around the corner. When you find a game that you really, really love, and maybe if you're like me, you try to make that experience last for as long as you can.
Multiplayer, on the other hand... there's no balance, no ebb and flow. There's just the conflict, the victory, the defeat, and then the next game. And the urge to play "just one more game" is overwhelming. It's all-consuming. It's addicting. So many times over the past month would I find myself logging in to Modern Warfare to play for "a few games," only to realize that I'd been playing for hours on end. And even after realizing that it was getting late, that I should do some writing, the urge to play "just one more game" was hard to resist.
Don't get me wrong, I love the multiplayer aspect. I love playing games with my friends. I love the competition. But more and more, as I feel my World of WarCraft days fade further and further into my past, as I realize it's been more than half a year since I "seriously" played that game, which is the longest I've gone without it since I first began playing in 2005, I realize that there is a very dangerous "too much of a good thing" going on with our games today. I can recall, quite clearly, a younger version of me who squeezed every last drop of playability out of my games. I remember always trying to find more things to do in games, anything to make the game last longer. Maybe that was because games were shorter back in those days or maybe it was because I had way more free time as a kid. Maybe a little of both, I don't know.
What I do know is that somewhere along the way, the whole "all good things must come to an end" rule got broken. The multiplayer game where you could play for as long as you had someone to play with became the massively multiplayer game, which were also called persistent worlds in the either days, and were very much defined by the fact that they did not end. Ever. You played until you burnt out, or something new came along, or your life shattered and you were dragged kicking and screaming back into the real world.
I love Dragon Age; it's currently my favorite game to play and I'm sure will be for a while yet. But I know that no matter how much I love Dragon Age, there will come a time when I'm done with it, when it will be time to move on, because there's nothing left to do. It happened before, with Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic. It happened with Mass Effect. It happened with Oblivion. It happened with Morrowind. No matter how much I loved those games, eventually, it was time to go. That is not to say that I love them any less now; I have fond memories of all of those games, memories that I'll keep with me and cherish. But there came a natural end to my playing of those games. There was a point when I was done.
Multiplayer and massively multiplayer games don't have that natural, gentle break. They go on and on and on, into infinity, essentially, since the only thing that'll stop you from playing is you. There's no natural break. There's no sense, ever, that it's time to let go and move on. At one point, I thought that was kind of cool; after all, if you're having fun, you don't want the fun to end. The last page of a good book always makes you a little sad that it's over. It sucks when you realize the credits are about to roll on a great movie. You aren't ready to leave when those things happen.
And yet, I can't help but feel that's the difference between playing games as a child and playing them now as an adult. I shudder to think about what would have happened to be if there were MMOs when I was a kid, when I was utterly incapable of grasping the idea that too much of a good thing was even possible. If I could conceive of such a thing, it would be only in the very vaguest sense. Here, now, at this point in my life, I can understand and appreciate a finite limit to my enjoyment of any particular game. It means I don't have to worry about falling into addiction, about losing control entirely.
I like playing games. Love it, in fact. My collection is pretty extensive, and I very much doubt I'm going to grow out of it any time soon, or really, ever. And I like playing games with my friends. And I like the idea about being able to immerse myself in the fantasy worlds, the escapism, the release from normal life.
For brief periods of time.
There have to be limits. There has to be a time when you say, "okay, that's enough," and move on. That's healthy, that's responsible, that's mature.
But more and more, I realize that the MMO tries to break those limits. Not just tries, but succeeds. And that's dangerous. That's unsettling.
There have to be limits.
I don't know if this happens to other people, but I find myself engaging in all kinds of mental gymnastics when it comes to my work. I spend far too much time thinking about what kind of music produces the best writing, whether what I ate that day has any effect on my creativity, whether I played any video games, and on and on and on. To some extent, I've noticed a few correlations, especially in the video game connection, although oddly, not quite in the way you'd expect.
It'd be entirely reasonable to assume that playing video games leads to a reduced work output as I struggle to balance the need to write with the desire to game. And yet, I've come to realize that it's not so much the time I spend gaming, but what I'm playing that really effects how I feel about writing and how much writing I'll manage to get done. In particular, single player games, especially those with strong stories, really serve to inspire me and motivate me to tell my own stories; Dragon Age, in particular served as a great resource when I'd get stuck on trying to make a character's voice sound distinctive.
On the other hand, multiplayer games (both of the MMO and competitive variety) absolutely murder my work ethic. I know that I definitely went on a bit of a spree with Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2, and that for a few weeks there, I was playing it as often as I could and far more than I should have been. As I showed with the Dragon Age example, I don't think that games are necessarily damaging to my work... they can sometimes be a helpful resource for getting my mind thinking and coming up with my own characters and ideas. But multiplayer games... that's another story, if you'll pardon the lame ass pun.
In multiplayer games, I'm not thinking about characters, or voices, or story. I'm thinking about the game, about winning, about doing whatever it takes to play as hard as I can and do the best that I can. And that competitive drive, that desire to win shuts down the other parts of my brain. There's no voice when I'm playing to win, there's no pondering about what sort of epic narrative might be spawned from my struggle; there's only me, and my opponents, and my objective. Nothing else.
The other problem with the multiplayer games is that they're terrible time sinks in a way that Dragon Age and other single player games could never be. That seems a little bit odd, since it's the single player RPGs that get the reputation for being massive, 60 hours or more a playthrough. The problem, though, is that with Dragon Age, yeah, I'd play it for a long stretch at a time, but it was easier to pace myself, easier to say, "okay, I've played enough for tonight." This happened for a few reasons; within the context of the story being told, there were moments of rising action, climax, and falling action, as you moved from chapter to chapter in that particular narrative, and so there were natural stopping points where it was okay to sign off for the night. Also, although I was very, very excited to complete the game and find out "what happens," there's also the sobering knowledge that part of the thrill in a single player game is the feeling you get when everything's new, when you don't know how it's going to end or what's around the corner. When you find a game that you really, really love, and maybe if you're like me, you try to make that experience last for as long as you can.
Multiplayer, on the other hand... there's no balance, no ebb and flow. There's just the conflict, the victory, the defeat, and then the next game. And the urge to play "just one more game" is overwhelming. It's all-consuming. It's addicting. So many times over the past month would I find myself logging in to Modern Warfare to play for "a few games," only to realize that I'd been playing for hours on end. And even after realizing that it was getting late, that I should do some writing, the urge to play "just one more game" was hard to resist.
Don't get me wrong, I love the multiplayer aspect. I love playing games with my friends. I love the competition. But more and more, as I feel my World of WarCraft days fade further and further into my past, as I realize it's been more than half a year since I "seriously" played that game, which is the longest I've gone without it since I first began playing in 2005, I realize that there is a very dangerous "too much of a good thing" going on with our games today. I can recall, quite clearly, a younger version of me who squeezed every last drop of playability out of my games. I remember always trying to find more things to do in games, anything to make the game last longer. Maybe that was because games were shorter back in those days or maybe it was because I had way more free time as a kid. Maybe a little of both, I don't know.
What I do know is that somewhere along the way, the whole "all good things must come to an end" rule got broken. The multiplayer game where you could play for as long as you had someone to play with became the massively multiplayer game, which were also called persistent worlds in the either days, and were very much defined by the fact that they did not end. Ever. You played until you burnt out, or something new came along, or your life shattered and you were dragged kicking and screaming back into the real world.
I love Dragon Age; it's currently my favorite game to play and I'm sure will be for a while yet. But I know that no matter how much I love Dragon Age, there will come a time when I'm done with it, when it will be time to move on, because there's nothing left to do. It happened before, with Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic. It happened with Mass Effect. It happened with Oblivion. It happened with Morrowind. No matter how much I loved those games, eventually, it was time to go. That is not to say that I love them any less now; I have fond memories of all of those games, memories that I'll keep with me and cherish. But there came a natural end to my playing of those games. There was a point when I was done.
Multiplayer and massively multiplayer games don't have that natural, gentle break. They go on and on and on, into infinity, essentially, since the only thing that'll stop you from playing is you. There's no natural break. There's no sense, ever, that it's time to let go and move on. At one point, I thought that was kind of cool; after all, if you're having fun, you don't want the fun to end. The last page of a good book always makes you a little sad that it's over. It sucks when you realize the credits are about to roll on a great movie. You aren't ready to leave when those things happen.
And yet, I can't help but feel that's the difference between playing games as a child and playing them now as an adult. I shudder to think about what would have happened to be if there were MMOs when I was a kid, when I was utterly incapable of grasping the idea that too much of a good thing was even possible. If I could conceive of such a thing, it would be only in the very vaguest sense. Here, now, at this point in my life, I can understand and appreciate a finite limit to my enjoyment of any particular game. It means I don't have to worry about falling into addiction, about losing control entirely.
I like playing games. Love it, in fact. My collection is pretty extensive, and I very much doubt I'm going to grow out of it any time soon, or really, ever. And I like playing games with my friends. And I like the idea about being able to immerse myself in the fantasy worlds, the escapism, the release from normal life.
For brief periods of time.
There have to be limits. There has to be a time when you say, "okay, that's enough," and move on. That's healthy, that's responsible, that's mature.
But more and more, I realize that the MMO tries to break those limits. Not just tries, but succeeds. And that's dangerous. That's unsettling.
There have to be limits.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
