Posts Tagged ‘Being human’

Fear.less

Friday, May 7th, 2010

Stories with fearless heroes are guaranteed to be forgettable. Fear serves the literary purpose of bringing the protagonist to that place of “emptiness, exhaustion and dread” about which I spoke in my previous post. Fear brings the hero to that very necessary full-stop, where she has no choice but to surrender her tired old strategies. But don’t take my word for it – here’s what a Buddhist nun living in Nova Scotia says about fear:

“Anyone who stands on the edge of the unknown, fully in the present without reference point…that’s when our understanding goes deeper.”

Pema Chodron

Her name is Pema Chodron, and this next quote is music to my ears, trying as I have, lately, to prove the advantages of adversity:

“If we commit ourselves to staying right where we are, then our experience becomes very vivid. Things become very clear when there is nowhere to escape.”

Who’d have thought that my literary lessons were imbedded in Buddhist thought?

Not for the first time, I have Seth Godin’s blog to thank for a timely link, this time  to Chodron in a new e-mag called Fear.less. Truly religious people like Chodron are always iconoclastic, turning our conventional logic on its head.

“No one ever tells us to stop running from fear,” she says. “We are very rarely told to move closer, to just be there, to become familiar with fear.”

We’re more likely to be given soothing words or even drugs – but Chodron reminds us that dissociating from fear comes quite naturally to us. What we really ought to do – and what the best story protagonists do – is to hold our ground. Heroes don’t run away. They risk burning in the present moment. It’s a risk that’s guaranteed to pay off in fiction, and even more so in real life.

“The most heartbreaking thing of all,” says Chodron, “is how we cheat ourselves of the present moment.”

I should end there, but there’s no harm in leaving you with a few more words from Pema Chodron:

“So the next time you encounter fear, consider yourself lucky. This is where the courage comes in. Usually we think that brave people have no fear. The truth is that they are intimate with fear. When I was first married, my husband said I was one of the bravest people he knew. When I asked him why, he said because I was a complete coward but went ahead and did things anyhow.” 

Blomkvist R Us

Monday, March 22nd, 2010

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo presents a protagonist whose life is disintegrating. Mikael Blomkvist, a journalist, has been convicted of slandering a wealthy industrialist, and will shortly go to jail. Consequently, the magazine he publishes may fail. To occupy himself before he heads to prison, he agrees to solve an impossible mystery. All this uncertainty is key to the design of this and many stories – a beginning that can only be described as hopeless.

What interests me is why readers so willingly engage with hopeless situations. Of course, Blomkvist R Us. Our lives are a painful quandary, so we live vicariously through the struggles of the literary protagonist, yada yada yada. Yeah, we know that already. This is why we keep buying novels and watching films about people in dire straits.

But WHY is failure so compelling? An uncertain state of mind must serve us somehow. This we know instinctively.

We’ve heard it before – heartache inspires art. Adversity spawns adventure. Breakdowns present our best chance for breakthrough. But who besides a few saints chooses to suffer? No, we ignore our instincts to sustain the delusion that we are masters of our fate and captains of our soul.

But our passion for anguished heroes belies all this self-bamboozlement. Books that begin with a Blomkvist serve to connect us to an essential state of mind. One that we’re (understandably) too terrified to face in reality.

And so we read. And so we write.

We Can’t All Be Everything

Tuesday, March 2nd, 2010

I’m writing a review of “The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo” for the Vanishing Tattoo website. Author Stieg Larsson has created an unlikely duo that team up to solve the mystery of a long-ago disappearance of a young woman in a lonely Swedish landscape. Blomkvist and Salander couldn’t appear more incompatible – a middle-aged journalist, principled, disciplined and male,  in league with a young, brooding, anorexic, rebellious, body-modified hacker. About the only thing they have in common is the brewing and drinking of unhealthy amounts of coffee (on just about every page, I swear it’s true). Soon, though, it’s clear that for different reasons Blomkvist and Salander have something else simmering on the back burner – vengeance.

Never mind the story – what interests me is the device of bringing together such stark opposites. It makes for great dramatic tension, not least because Salander and Blomkvist become romantically involved. It also makes the point that two people can become one super-powered organism. What if we were to extrapolate that to humanity in general?

Recently, I’ve become impressed with my limitations. I am not and never will acquire a talent for figure skating, quantum physics, or navigating FaceBook. Similarly, few people on earth have my unique passion for sounding important in print, collecting old golf clubs, and meditating. Obviously, we can’t all be everything. As a species, though, we are – all together—everything. The evolution of the human species would appear to be lurching, however painfully slowly, toward a secure ontological footing in this fact.

So what?

So this – a vicarious glimpse of wholeness is one of the rewards of reading good literature. Authors aren’t knowingly designing stories with this in mind. They don’t have to. It’s part of a protagonist’s job description to gain a larger worldview in advance of charging into Act III.

After getting sufficiently battered by the forces of antagonism, the hero starts to become disenchanted with all her best efforts and comes to learn that she is ‘only human’. If she accepts that notion, she realizes that she’s part of a larger interconnected humanity. By acknowledging our limits, we simultaneously see the advantages of surrendering to how the whole works together. We see this in stories all the time. Look for it.

By the end of “Dragon Tattoo,” the dark and tattooed angel known as Salander is just beginning to wake up to these facts of life. She has two sequels to look forward to. Two more thick volumes in which to experiment with the nearly impossible art of becoming human.

The Main Thing in Life

Thursday, February 25th, 2010

A recent review of “Roxy” would appear to be suggesting that the subject of teen pregnancy is inappropriate for young adults. The reviewer wrote: “…the heart-warming ending is based on something which is wrong.”

Wrong? Hmm. Gee. How on earth can tears, or a warm heart, be wrong? Oh, before I go on, I should report that the reviewer appeared to sincerely like most of the book:

“It’s a good story – I was very keen to keep turning the pages to find out how things would work out and how the mysteries of Roxy and Maddy’s lives would unravel. There’s a great sense of place too – I swear I could smell the herb fields in Corfu and…” Etc.

In other words, some of life’s problems – teen sex, pregnancy, young motherhood – though valid themes for adults, are too hot for teens. Oh, yes, the reviewer also added that, “Alcohol and pregnancy shouldn’t mix, even in fiction.” Never mind that Roxy, never consumed any alcohol in the story, “…she would have drunk it if she’d liked it,” the reviewer reckoned.

Okay, you get the picture. It’s Roxy vs political correctness. Those of you who know me are bracing for a rant – but no – today I’m leaving my rebuttal in the hands of another writer more talented by far. Colin Higgins.

Higgins wrote that delightfully irreverent little story called “Harold and Maude” which showed up on the big screen in 1978. It’s the story of a romance between a 19 year old boy and an 80 year old woman. He finds her a bit wild, and tells her so. She replies, sweetly.

“Virtue? It’s best not to be too moral. You cheat yourself out of too much life. Aim above morality. As Confucius says, ‘Don’t simply be good. Make good things happen.’”

 

I think Roxy can fairly be credited for making a lot of good things happen for her damaged family. Her desire to raise a healthy child is not the least of those good deeds.

I often see political correctness as an attempt to cover up an awkward truth – and it troubles me that young people are in danger of falling into denial of the human condition. But it’s a writer’s duty to speak the truth, don’t you think? And by doing so, remain as human as possible.

 “Oh, Harold,” she sighed, stroking his hair. “You are so young. What have they taught you?” She brushed away the tears that fell down her cheeks. “Yes. I cry. I cry for you. I cry for this. I cry at beauty – a sunset or a seagull. I cry when a man tortures his brother…when he repents and begs for forgiveness…when forgiveness is refused…and when it is granted. One laughs. One cries. Two uniquely human traits. And the main thing in life, my dear Harold, is not to be afraid to be human.”