The Thing With Wings

[rolanni]

Note to self: Do not under any circumstances short of Total Mechanical Failure take the car into the shop on Saturday. Even if they give you a ten o'clock appointment. All of the appointments on Saturday are for ten o'clock. It is not the object of this essay to explore Exactly How Stupid that is.

I went prepared with a yellow pad, a book to amuse myself with, and a bottle of water. It shortly became obvious that I was a piker. One father came in with his four girls -- three from five to seven and one a babe in arms -- a picnic basket and a bag of Stuff for the kids to play with while they waited. The television was speedily dialed to one cartoon channel, then to another when Scooby-Do was pronounced unacceptable.

It being impossible to hear myself think in the waiting room, I went outside, took a walk up the hill and down the hill, then across to Fort Halifax Park. It was breezy, and too cool for writing on even the sunniest benches, so I took my time exploring the high water marks left by the last deluge, and watching the eagles over the Kennebec.

Back to the shop forty-five minutes later, only to find that they hadn't yet touched Argent. When I asked at the service desk for a probable finish time, I was told, blithely, "Oh, two or three o'clock." It was at that point eleven o'clock; the kids in the waiting room were still there, noisily, having been joined by three more, with their parents, every single one of them pinned to the television.

"OK," I said. "I'll walk home."

The service guy looked at me. "Where do you live?"

"At the Albion line."

He paled. "But that's -- Wait a minute. I'll see if somebody can drive you home."

Ten minutes later, he reappeared. "Sharon, your car's going in now. It'll be ready in an hour."

I went for another walk, returned in an hour and sure enough, the car was done.

On the plus side, I got in some quality exercise today. And, I've scoped out the Final Showdown for Carousel Tides.

Long, disjointed ramble

Yes, yes, it had an ending. It was a lame ending. This one is much much better. Not only does it actually resolve the stated problems of the narrative, but it answers the Monster on the Second Floor.

I'm guessing most writers have a Monster on the Second Floor. That's the one who keeps telling you that if you were a real writer, you'd be writing something meaningful. Something Important. You'd be able to change the world. That's a particularly potent dart, because, on one level I got into this gig in order to change the world.

So the Monster on the Second Floor has been harranguing me the whole time I've been working on this book -- this book that I reallyReallyREALLY wanted to write -- asking me how I dared to write this particular piece (of noxious fluff, the Monster would say), given the state of the Real World.

And I haven't had a good answer for the Monster. In the past, I've been able to point out that giving people something else to think about after a hard day is a Good that cancels out the inherent worthlessness of my literary efforts. But this time -- I had to agree with the Monster. The state of the Real World is...not so good. The oceans are within ames-ace of being fished out, the ice caps are melting, whole species are dying, the whole mess accelerating as it gallops downhill -- and we keep on breeding, consuming and destroying just like always. Just like there's no limit to the bounty of the planet. Like we haven't noticed that the light at the end of the tunnel is the End of the World Express.

It's hard to justify writing fantasy in such times.

Because, among other things, fantasy, and sf, are about hope. About a new day -- a different day -- being born out of the darkness of terrible travails. About validating effort both heroic and ordinary; and it's an article of genre faith that the efforts of one person, no matter how small, count.

It's hard to teach hope in such times. Worse, it may not be the right thing to do. Perhaps hope is outmoded. I don't know what to teach in its place, mind you. But the possibility exists that what I'm doing in providing "harmless entertainment;" in promising that tomorrow will be better, is ...dangerous.

That's distressing on levels even the Monster on the Second Floor walks lightly upon.

Comments

[kalimeg.livejournal.com]

Writing depresing stuff is not helpful. Many writers have done that -- have even written about polluting the world to death and ruining it (calling Phillip Wylie). It doesn't caution anyone against anything, except possibly microscopically -- and microscopic isn't good enough anymore.

Did "Soylent Green" tell anyone anything?

Hope

[(Anonymous)]

It's there. My mom told me during the depression they often had no food in the house. She remembers once there was one can of olives in the cupboards and that was it. During this time her grandmother started her in needlework that was hopeful in contrast to the bleakness of their everydays and I still have a piece she made from 1931 when she was 6 years old. It's framed and in my dining room to remind me of hope on the bad days.

I do believe we are an ever advancing civilization. It takes more effort to see it though because the last six years with Bush have gutted us. It scares me that so many people don't get it.

Lastly, keep writing what fills your spirit. The great novel isn't necessarily going to change the world. Being able to come home and look forward to Miri or the Turtles - now that changes my world.

Kelly
Temple City, CA

[kristine-smith.livejournal.com]

It's hard to justify writing fantasy in such times.

Hope is never outmoded. Hope drives action. Hope makes a difference.

I really believe it.

From "Learning in Wartime", C. S. Lewis

[(Anonymous)]

... The war creates no absolutely new situation; it simply aggravates the permanent human situation so that we can no longer ignore it. Human life has always been lived on the edge of a precipice. Human culture has always had to exist under the shadow of something infinitely more important than itself. If men had postponed the search for knowledge and beauty until they were secure, the search would never have begun. ... The insects have chosen a different line; they have sought first the material welfare and security of the hive, and presumably they have their reward. Men are different. They propound mathematical theorems in beleaguered cities, conduct metaphysical arguments in condemned cells, make jokes on scaffolds, discuss the last new poem while advancing to the walls of Quebec, and comb their hair at Thermopylae. This is not panache; it is our nature.