It occurs to me, from time to time, that I do a lot of work that has no bearing on my academic career. This is typically a point that's driven home for me when I realize that having encroaching paper due dates will most likely cut into my blogging and possibly even my novel writing time. Which is a weird thing to think about, to be honest.
So, like an idiot, I volunteered to be the first person to present my short story for workshop in my fiction class in a few weeks. March 22nd is the date. No biggie, I thought smugly as I watched the professor write my name in the slot. That's plenty of time to write a fifteen page short story. Side note: it always amuses me how relaxed I am about longer assignments... it's just hard to get dismayed by fifteen pages when I'm working on something that's currently 163 pages, single spaced.
Wait. Something was off, something in the back of my mind told me I was missing an important calculation, something that would change the entire meaning of this equation. What was it, what was it, what...
I consulted my planner. Checked dates. Nope, nothing the week of the 22nd. I'm good there.
And just a reminder, the professor said, be sure to have copies of your story a week before your workshop date, so we have time to look over them. Still not a problem, March 15th is a long ways off, too. Not quite as long as the 22nd, but.... oh wait. Wait.
Oh.
March 15th is part of that magical time of the year known to college students as "Spring Break." Which meant no class before my presentation. Which meant... that I'd have to turn my story in the week before that. Which meant turning it in on the 8th.
Which meant I have to be ready in three weeks.
Well, shit.
The good news is that I have a pretty good idea for a story, I think. I mean, I hope I do; I guess I won't really know until I actually start working on it, which I really, really should do soon. Fortunately for me, the way I see it, I'm already in the habit of writing every day. So, really, it shouldn't be difficult to replace my novel writing time for short story writing time. I can start that tomorrow, and since I'm still writing, it completely fits in with my goal of Write Every Day. Hey, this won't be so bad!
So why do I feel like my writing class is interfering with my stated goal of being a writer?
How very, very odd.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Who Am I
Who are we?
Who am I? Who are you?
It's one of the most important questions we can ever ask, right up there with "why" (which is the single most important question, I think) and "how do we know that we really know anything?" The question of who one is... it's a question that seeks to compress the entirety of an individual human experience into... what, exactly? Something that can be answered in a sentence? A page? A book? Something that can be translated into mere language, mere words?
How do you even try to answer that question? Where do you begin? Do you talk about what you do, what you've done, what you hope to do in the future? But then you've not really answered the question, have you? Not the question I'm asking, anyway. You've told me what you've done, what you do, what you will do. You haven't told me who you are.
I can ask the question of you, of myself, of anybody in the world. I can get a thousand answers, a million, a billion, and all of them will answer a variation of "what" instead of "who?"
For the record, I understand the difference between who and whom. I just don't care about it as much as I do other bad habits of speech; "who" just happens to sound better in most cases. So there. Moving on.
I'm a writer. I'm a gamer. I'm a cat owner, an apartment renter. A student, and not a great one at that. I'm a son. A friend. Maybe even a best friend. A brother. Maybe some day I'll be a father. All things that answer the question of what I am. Not who.
I like music and movies. I like books. I like the color purple. I don't like spiders. I like vanilla. I like to think that I'm a romantic. I like feeling witty and clever. I don't like stupid people.
All variations of what. What I am, what I like, what I do, what I want. What, what, what. I can never describe who. Even my name doesn't really answer the question; it might tell you who I am, in the sense of identity, in the sense that you can now distinguish me from the other 6.6 billion people in the world in some small way. But who is Matthew, exactly? My name is something that my parents gave me; it has a meaning, a meaning that might even describe me, if I'm lucky, but it wasn't created for me. There are other people who share the same name, other people who the name describes.
Don't we need to know this question? Don't we need to be able to know who we are? We walk around every day and see our fellow humans, our fellow men and woman, and we see the faces and the masks, and we're all aware, in some small sense, that no one is ever who they truly appear to be. We all have secrets. Thoughts we don't ever, ever share, however small and insignificant. We all have moments we're not proud of, we all have and do things that we think are "out of character" at times. We're not really like that, we say and think later. That's not who we are. Not who I am. That person, that other person, he's not me.
But how can I say that, how can I think that and believe that when I don't even know who I am?
Who am I? Who are you?
It's one of the most important questions we can ever ask, right up there with "why" (which is the single most important question, I think) and "how do we know that we really know anything?" The question of who one is... it's a question that seeks to compress the entirety of an individual human experience into... what, exactly? Something that can be answered in a sentence? A page? A book? Something that can be translated into mere language, mere words?
How do you even try to answer that question? Where do you begin? Do you talk about what you do, what you've done, what you hope to do in the future? But then you've not really answered the question, have you? Not the question I'm asking, anyway. You've told me what you've done, what you do, what you will do. You haven't told me who you are.
I can ask the question of you, of myself, of anybody in the world. I can get a thousand answers, a million, a billion, and all of them will answer a variation of "what" instead of "who?"
For the record, I understand the difference between who and whom. I just don't care about it as much as I do other bad habits of speech; "who" just happens to sound better in most cases. So there. Moving on.
I'm a writer. I'm a gamer. I'm a cat owner, an apartment renter. A student, and not a great one at that. I'm a son. A friend. Maybe even a best friend. A brother. Maybe some day I'll be a father. All things that answer the question of what I am. Not who.
I like music and movies. I like books. I like the color purple. I don't like spiders. I like vanilla. I like to think that I'm a romantic. I like feeling witty and clever. I don't like stupid people.
All variations of what. What I am, what I like, what I do, what I want. What, what, what. I can never describe who. Even my name doesn't really answer the question; it might tell you who I am, in the sense of identity, in the sense that you can now distinguish me from the other 6.6 billion people in the world in some small way. But who is Matthew, exactly? My name is something that my parents gave me; it has a meaning, a meaning that might even describe me, if I'm lucky, but it wasn't created for me. There are other people who share the same name, other people who the name describes.
Don't we need to know this question? Don't we need to be able to know who we are? We walk around every day and see our fellow humans, our fellow men and woman, and we see the faces and the masks, and we're all aware, in some small sense, that no one is ever who they truly appear to be. We all have secrets. Thoughts we don't ever, ever share, however small and insignificant. We all have moments we're not proud of, we all have and do things that we think are "out of character" at times. We're not really like that, we say and think later. That's not who we are. Not who I am. That person, that other person, he's not me.
But how can I say that, how can I think that and believe that when I don't even know who I am?
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Winterborn 77
When was the last time I did this? Tuesday night? Is it possible that entire days have slipped by without my noticing? It would seem so.
And to think, you might have wondered why the tagline or the sub-title or whatever the fuck you call that line underneath the title was a poignant query: "What did I do yesterday?"
I can recall writing. And... other things.
It was entirely my intention to miss only a single day of the blog schedule. But I can't quite recall, now, which day that was supposed to be. Was it Wednesday? I think it was Wednesday, as, if memory serves, that was a night dominated first by a rousing game of Dungeons & Dragons, a game that ran well into the wee hours of the morning. I recall a certain feeling of trepidation as I said my immortal words, in the manner of who rightly calls himself The Master of Dungeons And All They Contain Therein: "And I think we'll call it there for the night. Good game, guys."
Long pause. Glance at clock. I think it was approaching 2 AM. Or maybe 3 AM. It was well past the midnight hour, I can assure you!
Then: "Oh, fuck me. I still have to do my writing for the night."
I did, indeed, do my writing for that night, as I have now done reliably for what is, by my count, a solid two weeks without missing a day. It's gotten to the point, as it did during NaNoWriMo that "doing my writing" is just this thing, this aspect of my life that I have to do, whether I want to or not. I'm proud of myself for that, even though I haven't wanted to write at all during this week. But I wrote anyway, and you know, it may not be all that good, it may be that when I go back and edit the work, I look back on this time with derision. "I really just should have stayed away from my keyboard that week," Future Me might say with a smirk.
But, Goddamnit, I wrote anyway. And I'm glad that I did. Because this is my life, bitches, this is a thing that I use to define myself as a person. It's not what I do, not the way I want to pay the bills. It's something that's a part of me, that's inseprable from the greater whole of my person. I cannot willingly diverge from the act, not now, not when I know that to do as such is to backslide into depression and a grim, joyless existence.
You may think I'm exaggerating. I challenge you to go browse the archives of my previous blog. Read a few entries. Note the tone and the subject. And then note the dates between entries.
I wrote two short stories in the past two years, prior to 2009.
I worked on my novel manuscript, the sequel to my very first novel, maybe twice in all of 2009. And prior to that, I don't think I'd even taken a crack at it since 2007. I wasn't a writer, then. I might have told myself, and others, that I was one, and very much wanted to be one. But I wasn't writing, and as such, you cannot be any certain title or thing unless you first engage in the behavior embodied by said title.
But now, here I am, writing every day even though I don't feel like it most days, blogging even though maybe ten people (at best) read this, and you know what? I feel fucking awesome as a result.
It's gotten to the point now where this novel of mine, this Write Every Day thing that I put to myself as a challenge has begun to matter more to me than being a university student? I'm not sure if that's a statement as to the level of immersion I have towards my studies, or an indication that my priorities are just that twisted.
I saw snow today at the mall on campus. It was fucking incredible.
And to think, you might have wondered why the tagline or the sub-title or whatever the fuck you call that line underneath the title was a poignant query: "What did I do yesterday?"
I can recall writing. And... other things.
It was entirely my intention to miss only a single day of the blog schedule. But I can't quite recall, now, which day that was supposed to be. Was it Wednesday? I think it was Wednesday, as, if memory serves, that was a night dominated first by a rousing game of Dungeons & Dragons, a game that ran well into the wee hours of the morning. I recall a certain feeling of trepidation as I said my immortal words, in the manner of who rightly calls himself The Master of Dungeons And All They Contain Therein: "And I think we'll call it there for the night. Good game, guys."
Long pause. Glance at clock. I think it was approaching 2 AM. Or maybe 3 AM. It was well past the midnight hour, I can assure you!
Then: "Oh, fuck me. I still have to do my writing for the night."
I did, indeed, do my writing for that night, as I have now done reliably for what is, by my count, a solid two weeks without missing a day. It's gotten to the point, as it did during NaNoWriMo that "doing my writing" is just this thing, this aspect of my life that I have to do, whether I want to or not. I'm proud of myself for that, even though I haven't wanted to write at all during this week. But I wrote anyway, and you know, it may not be all that good, it may be that when I go back and edit the work, I look back on this time with derision. "I really just should have stayed away from my keyboard that week," Future Me might say with a smirk.
But, Goddamnit, I wrote anyway. And I'm glad that I did. Because this is my life, bitches, this is a thing that I use to define myself as a person. It's not what I do, not the way I want to pay the bills. It's something that's a part of me, that's inseprable from the greater whole of my person. I cannot willingly diverge from the act, not now, not when I know that to do as such is to backslide into depression and a grim, joyless existence.
You may think I'm exaggerating. I challenge you to go browse the archives of my previous blog. Read a few entries. Note the tone and the subject. And then note the dates between entries.
I wrote two short stories in the past two years, prior to 2009.
I worked on my novel manuscript, the sequel to my very first novel, maybe twice in all of 2009. And prior to that, I don't think I'd even taken a crack at it since 2007. I wasn't a writer, then. I might have told myself, and others, that I was one, and very much wanted to be one. But I wasn't writing, and as such, you cannot be any certain title or thing unless you first engage in the behavior embodied by said title.
But now, here I am, writing every day even though I don't feel like it most days, blogging even though maybe ten people (at best) read this, and you know what? I feel fucking awesome as a result.
It's gotten to the point now where this novel of mine, this Write Every Day thing that I put to myself as a challenge has begun to matter more to me than being a university student? I'm not sure if that's a statement as to the level of immersion I have towards my studies, or an indication that my priorities are just that twisted.
I saw snow today at the mall on campus. It was fucking incredible.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
I Really Don't Feel Like It
Really didn't want to write tonight.
I just didn't, still don't really, feel like I have much to say. Some days are like that. Some days, it's not that you feel too tired, too overworked, too whatever. Some days, you just don't feel like anything. Some days, there's just nothing on your mind worth sharing.
And yet, those are the days that I feel it's absolutely the most important to make the effort to stick with the schedule, to focus on the goal of Write Every Day. Because it's not the bad days that break routines. It's days like this one. Days where you don't have any real good excuse other than "I don't feel like it." Because it's easy to say "I don't feel like it" every day, and that's how you fall into the Nirvana Fallacy that I wrote about a while back; where you get into the habit of waiting for that "perfect day" to dedicate to writing. You know the day I'm talking about, even if you're not a writer. That magical day "some day in the future," where you'll feel like doing all the things you keep putting off. You'll balance the check book, clean out the closet, get started on that novel you've been telling people about since you were sixteen. Just need to have that perfect day. Then everything will be great.
That day never comes. Ever.
Oh, sure, there might be a day here and there where you feel really inspired. Days where the motivation is kicking and you get a lot of things done. I know there were days where the feeling that "I really should write" led me to sit down at the computer, bang out a thousand words, declare myself satisfied with my effort... and then allow myself to lapse for another four weeks.
You can't live your life waiting for that perfect day, where you'll have the time, energy and initiative to do everything you know you need to do.
That's a powerful life lesson, I think, one that extends far beyond writing. So many excuses start with "as soon as." As a world class procrastinator, I know all too well the allure of "as soon as." I'll get started on my book again as soon as class is over, so I'll have more time. I'll start writing as soon as class begins, because class always makes me think about writing and that gets me to do it. I'll start as soon as I feel better. As soon as I have a day off. As soon as I'm done playing video games.
And on, and on, into infinity.
That's why I can't allow myself to slack off on these days where I don't feel like it, when there's a million other things I'd rather be doing. Because there won't be many of those days where I "do" like it, unless I make them. Most of the time, when I sit down to write, I'm wanting to do other stuff, and it's not until the page gets going and the voices come alive in my mind that the work becomes a joy (and sometimes, not even then.)
What can I say? Writing is hard.
That doesn't change the fact that I love it, or the fact that every day I can mark off as a success in the goal of "Write Every Day" means that I feel that much better about myself and my life. And to top it all off, eventually, I'll have a book to show for it! Score! As well as a consistently updated blog, which is something I've always dreamed of having, and so rarely managed to actually achieve.
Now, if I could only find the same motivation to attend class every day as I seem to have found for both blogging and my novel. Then I'd be all set.
Maybe I need to tell myself that tomorrow is Day One of "Go To Class Every Day." See how many days I can go without skipping, oversleeping or missing a class.
Actually, that's a pretty good idea. I think I'll do that. Starting now.
I just didn't, still don't really, feel like I have much to say. Some days are like that. Some days, it's not that you feel too tired, too overworked, too whatever. Some days, you just don't feel like anything. Some days, there's just nothing on your mind worth sharing.
And yet, those are the days that I feel it's absolutely the most important to make the effort to stick with the schedule, to focus on the goal of Write Every Day. Because it's not the bad days that break routines. It's days like this one. Days where you don't have any real good excuse other than "I don't feel like it." Because it's easy to say "I don't feel like it" every day, and that's how you fall into the Nirvana Fallacy that I wrote about a while back; where you get into the habit of waiting for that "perfect day" to dedicate to writing. You know the day I'm talking about, even if you're not a writer. That magical day "some day in the future," where you'll feel like doing all the things you keep putting off. You'll balance the check book, clean out the closet, get started on that novel you've been telling people about since you were sixteen. Just need to have that perfect day. Then everything will be great.
That day never comes. Ever.
Oh, sure, there might be a day here and there where you feel really inspired. Days where the motivation is kicking and you get a lot of things done. I know there were days where the feeling that "I really should write" led me to sit down at the computer, bang out a thousand words, declare myself satisfied with my effort... and then allow myself to lapse for another four weeks.
You can't live your life waiting for that perfect day, where you'll have the time, energy and initiative to do everything you know you need to do.
That's a powerful life lesson, I think, one that extends far beyond writing. So many excuses start with "as soon as." As a world class procrastinator, I know all too well the allure of "as soon as." I'll get started on my book again as soon as class is over, so I'll have more time. I'll start writing as soon as class begins, because class always makes me think about writing and that gets me to do it. I'll start as soon as I feel better. As soon as I have a day off. As soon as I'm done playing video games.
And on, and on, into infinity.
That's why I can't allow myself to slack off on these days where I don't feel like it, when there's a million other things I'd rather be doing. Because there won't be many of those days where I "do" like it, unless I make them. Most of the time, when I sit down to write, I'm wanting to do other stuff, and it's not until the page gets going and the voices come alive in my mind that the work becomes a joy (and sometimes, not even then.)
What can I say? Writing is hard.
That doesn't change the fact that I love it, or the fact that every day I can mark off as a success in the goal of "Write Every Day" means that I feel that much better about myself and my life. And to top it all off, eventually, I'll have a book to show for it! Score! As well as a consistently updated blog, which is something I've always dreamed of having, and so rarely managed to actually achieve.
Now, if I could only find the same motivation to attend class every day as I seem to have found for both blogging and my novel. Then I'd be all set.
Maybe I need to tell myself that tomorrow is Day One of "Go To Class Every Day." See how many days I can go without skipping, oversleeping or missing a class.
Actually, that's a pretty good idea. I think I'll do that. Starting now.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Guilty Pleasure
I spent the day reading.
It really wasn't my intention, since I had things to do today; really needed to get my car down to the mechanic so he can hopefully fix the whole "my car doesn't start when it's cold, or when it rains, or when it doesn't feel like it" problem. And I've been having this really annoying pain in my jaw, which my ever-so-helpful brother insists means I need a root canal, so there was that whole "make an appointment with the dentist" thing. There was the class thing, which I didn't do because of the car thing, and the fact that I just... couldn't find the motivation to make myself go. That's a horrible reason for missing a class, but it's the truth, and frankly, if you feel the need to lie to your blog, well, I'm not judging you, I'm just saying... maybe you have issues, dude.
So I pretty much frittered away my time reading books.
I say frittered, because they weren't particularly important books.Omen and Abyss, by Christie Golden and Troy Denning, respectively. I say they're not important books, and that's because they're both Star Wars novels, which has for a long time now been a guilty pleasure of mine. Some of it (a lot of it, actually) has to do with the fact that, especially in my teenage years, Star Wars novels were basically all that I read for a while. You might say it had an impact on me, especially when The Last One Standing remains my favorite short story to this very day, or at least, it's the one I can quote almost line by line. And yeah, it's a Star Wars story, about perennial bad ass Boba Fett (at least as far as the EU material is concerned.)
As a little side note, I've read some of Christie Golden's work before, from the WarCraft universe, and I think that she really should write a book in an original setting. The first half of Arthas, where she's allowed to tell her own story instead of just following the preordained canon, was quite good, and I really liked her new character Vestara in the Omen novel.
Although I'm a Star Wars geek (and really, many other flavors of Geek, but I do have that purple lightsaber on display in my living room, so, you know) there's something about the Star Wars books that have always just been a source of consternation for me. I suppose it's because I can see them for what they are, and cringe appropriately at all the flaws that I would have cheerfully ignored at 13. For one thing, the galaxy, despite having a name and backstory for every single alien that appears in every single movie, is really quite small, focusing on a handful of individuals over pretty much every moment of their entire lives. The setting is larger than Luke Skywalker, Han Solo, Princess Leia, and so on, or at least, it could and should be.
Second, when you're working with such iconic characters, you get the feeling that the author isn't really free to use his or her own voice to tell the story, because we all know who Luke Skywalker is from the movies, and the comics, and the mountain of books that came before the one you're reading now. This is one of the main problems I have with "shared universe" fiction, or at least, a problem I have with characters written by more than one author. There's no chance to really feel that personal, intimate connection between author and character. You might "get" Luke Skywalker, you might understand who he is, what he sounds like, what he'd do in the scenario that you've presented to him. But you don't own him. You don't get to be him when you're writing him. You're just borrowing him.
All of those things, as well as several others, such as the fact that no serious, literate individual would admit to reading Star Wars books, and you have to wonder, why do I keep reading? And not just reading... but devouring. I remember reading through all nine books of the Legacy of the Force series in about two days. I started Omen last night, finished it this morning, promptly went into Abyss and finished that, too. There's just something about these books that draws me in and makes me want to stay there for a while. I get lost in the universe, the galaxy far, far away, for a while, and maybe it reminds me of simpler times, when I was a kid sitting on my bed, rereading my Han Solo novel for the zillionth time? Maybe it reminds me of how much the movies captivated me when I was younger?
Maybe it's because the novels don't have to be all that good, because they're trying to be something else: pure escapism, which isn't a bad thing. When I get into these books, I lose myself in them, to such an extent that when I get interrupted, I feel like I've been dragged back out into the real world. I remember driving down to the mechanic feeling disoriented and out of sorts, wishing I could just get back into my book as soon as possible. Not because I had to know how it ends, not because it was the most amazing thing I'd ever read, but simply because I liked being in that place.
I'm not sure, but I think that's a pretty cool thing for a book to do.
And so I'll continue with my guilty pleasure, even as my literary training tells me all the reasons I should be ashamed of myself and forces me to focus on all the flaws that have no place in my brain alongside the "great literary works." I'll continue, because more and more, I find myself not caring about certain things. I don't care any more about all those great literary works that I absolutely must read, or else be branded an ignorant troglodyte. I can't tell you how many classics I find boring, how many fail to captivate me, and yet I'm expected to regard them as holy relics, why? Because they're literature?
I say no. I can understand, in an academic sense, why the Mona Lisa is an amazing artistic accomplishment. I understand why Mozart is considered a master composer, why his symphonies are so highly respected. But that doesn't change the fact that my favorite piece of "art" is the poster I have of a dragon on my wall, and my favorite song wasn't written by Mozart, but by a guy singing about zombies, and why, although I get why I should love literature, the truth is, I really, really just like reading stories.
I like stories that make me happy, or make me sad, or make me anxious. I like stories that I can escape in, for a while, stories that make me turn the pages as quickly as I can get through them. I like stories and characters and adventures and yes, even silly, awesome things like lightsabers. I don't care that it's not academically impressive. I don't care that it's not cool.
It's what I like to read and I'm fucking sick of the fact that so many individuals in my academic world look down so disdainfully on the stories that enjoy. I'm sick of the fact that all we talk about in my class about novels is fucking bullshit about how "the novel represents the destruction of society and the freedom of the mind from an oppressive world." That doesn't mean jack shit to me. You know why I like novels? Why I like reading at all?
Because I love stories.
Because telling stories is what I do.
I don't care about anything else. I don't care about the beauty on the page, I don't care about the important contribution that this book or that book made to the world, I don't care. It's all just so much bullshit, so much posturing, so much an attempt to prove that storytelling doesn't matter unless it's literature.
But you know what? At the end of the day, in the final analysis, no matter how much you want to draw a distinction between literature and "genre trash," no matter how much you want to disparage popular fiction and bemoan for the glory days of "real writing," the truth is that all these ideas about what novels are, what literature is and what the rest of writing isn't don't fucking matter. Because, in the end, you know what?
We're all just doing a more sophisticated version of what our ancestors did thousands of years ago: making paintings on cave walls and telling each other tales by firelight.
It really wasn't my intention, since I had things to do today; really needed to get my car down to the mechanic so he can hopefully fix the whole "my car doesn't start when it's cold, or when it rains, or when it doesn't feel like it" problem. And I've been having this really annoying pain in my jaw, which my ever-so-helpful brother insists means I need a root canal, so there was that whole "make an appointment with the dentist" thing. There was the class thing, which I didn't do because of the car thing, and the fact that I just... couldn't find the motivation to make myself go. That's a horrible reason for missing a class, but it's the truth, and frankly, if you feel the need to lie to your blog, well, I'm not judging you, I'm just saying... maybe you have issues, dude.
So I pretty much frittered away my time reading books.
I say frittered, because they weren't particularly important books.Omen and Abyss, by Christie Golden and Troy Denning, respectively. I say they're not important books, and that's because they're both Star Wars novels, which has for a long time now been a guilty pleasure of mine. Some of it (a lot of it, actually) has to do with the fact that, especially in my teenage years, Star Wars novels were basically all that I read for a while. You might say it had an impact on me, especially when The Last One Standing remains my favorite short story to this very day, or at least, it's the one I can quote almost line by line. And yeah, it's a Star Wars story, about perennial bad ass Boba Fett (at least as far as the EU material is concerned.)
As a little side note, I've read some of Christie Golden's work before, from the WarCraft universe, and I think that she really should write a book in an original setting. The first half of Arthas, where she's allowed to tell her own story instead of just following the preordained canon, was quite good, and I really liked her new character Vestara in the Omen novel.
Although I'm a Star Wars geek (and really, many other flavors of Geek, but I do have that purple lightsaber on display in my living room, so, you know) there's something about the Star Wars books that have always just been a source of consternation for me. I suppose it's because I can see them for what they are, and cringe appropriately at all the flaws that I would have cheerfully ignored at 13. For one thing, the galaxy, despite having a name and backstory for every single alien that appears in every single movie, is really quite small, focusing on a handful of individuals over pretty much every moment of their entire lives. The setting is larger than Luke Skywalker, Han Solo, Princess Leia, and so on, or at least, it could and should be.
Second, when you're working with such iconic characters, you get the feeling that the author isn't really free to use his or her own voice to tell the story, because we all know who Luke Skywalker is from the movies, and the comics, and the mountain of books that came before the one you're reading now. This is one of the main problems I have with "shared universe" fiction, or at least, a problem I have with characters written by more than one author. There's no chance to really feel that personal, intimate connection between author and character. You might "get" Luke Skywalker, you might understand who he is, what he sounds like, what he'd do in the scenario that you've presented to him. But you don't own him. You don't get to be him when you're writing him. You're just borrowing him.
All of those things, as well as several others, such as the fact that no serious, literate individual would admit to reading Star Wars books, and you have to wonder, why do I keep reading? And not just reading... but devouring. I remember reading through all nine books of the Legacy of the Force series in about two days. I started Omen last night, finished it this morning, promptly went into Abyss and finished that, too. There's just something about these books that draws me in and makes me want to stay there for a while. I get lost in the universe, the galaxy far, far away, for a while, and maybe it reminds me of simpler times, when I was a kid sitting on my bed, rereading my Han Solo novel for the zillionth time? Maybe it reminds me of how much the movies captivated me when I was younger?
Maybe it's because the novels don't have to be all that good, because they're trying to be something else: pure escapism, which isn't a bad thing. When I get into these books, I lose myself in them, to such an extent that when I get interrupted, I feel like I've been dragged back out into the real world. I remember driving down to the mechanic feeling disoriented and out of sorts, wishing I could just get back into my book as soon as possible. Not because I had to know how it ends, not because it was the most amazing thing I'd ever read, but simply because I liked being in that place.
I'm not sure, but I think that's a pretty cool thing for a book to do.
And so I'll continue with my guilty pleasure, even as my literary training tells me all the reasons I should be ashamed of myself and forces me to focus on all the flaws that have no place in my brain alongside the "great literary works." I'll continue, because more and more, I find myself not caring about certain things. I don't care any more about all those great literary works that I absolutely must read, or else be branded an ignorant troglodyte. I can't tell you how many classics I find boring, how many fail to captivate me, and yet I'm expected to regard them as holy relics, why? Because they're literature?
I say no. I can understand, in an academic sense, why the Mona Lisa is an amazing artistic accomplishment. I understand why Mozart is considered a master composer, why his symphonies are so highly respected. But that doesn't change the fact that my favorite piece of "art" is the poster I have of a dragon on my wall, and my favorite song wasn't written by Mozart, but by a guy singing about zombies, and why, although I get why I should love literature, the truth is, I really, really just like reading stories.
I like stories that make me happy, or make me sad, or make me anxious. I like stories that I can escape in, for a while, stories that make me turn the pages as quickly as I can get through them. I like stories and characters and adventures and yes, even silly, awesome things like lightsabers. I don't care that it's not academically impressive. I don't care that it's not cool.
It's what I like to read and I'm fucking sick of the fact that so many individuals in my academic world look down so disdainfully on the stories that enjoy. I'm sick of the fact that all we talk about in my class about novels is fucking bullshit about how "the novel represents the destruction of society and the freedom of the mind from an oppressive world." That doesn't mean jack shit to me. You know why I like novels? Why I like reading at all?
Because I love stories.
Because telling stories is what I do.
I don't care about anything else. I don't care about the beauty on the page, I don't care about the important contribution that this book or that book made to the world, I don't care. It's all just so much bullshit, so much posturing, so much an attempt to prove that storytelling doesn't matter unless it's literature.
But you know what? At the end of the day, in the final analysis, no matter how much you want to draw a distinction between literature and "genre trash," no matter how much you want to disparage popular fiction and bemoan for the glory days of "real writing," the truth is that all these ideas about what novels are, what literature is and what the rest of writing isn't don't fucking matter. Because, in the end, you know what?
We're all just doing a more sophisticated version of what our ancestors did thousands of years ago: making paintings on cave walls and telling each other tales by firelight.
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