Fantasy vs. Reality

I've done no editing on this. I just up-chucked it as you see it here.

Friend of mine asked what up about me and the Fantasy genre. So I decided to really slow it down (my thinking) give it a good stir, and consider. No flippant remarks, no matter how tempting.

Why do we like the genres we like? And why do we not like the ones we do?

I think… I think I've always been a realist. I think that there are aspects about my life that I figured out early in life that I would not ever be able to control. So I think that I decided to identify those things which I could in the interest of providing as much stability, safety, I dunno…. I think I realized early on that the way to control as much as I could about my life was to go about it rationally. Cause and effect, A+B=C, the Scientific Method… these are constants. Follow them and you can’t go wrong. No surprises.

I don’t like surprises. I don’t like twist endings, I don’t like things that I could not have foreseen. So I don’t like Fantasy. Too many variables. If a writer can conjure up a dragon, there’s no line that’s going to be respected. Seven-eared geese-monkeys are next, and clearly, no good can come of that.

I don’t want to be lied to. I don’t want my information sugar coated. I can take it. Life is gritty enough on its own. Give it to me straight. Even as a six-year-old, “happily ever after” smacked of cop-out for me. Like the writer just got tired of thinking and decided that this was a good place to end the story. Everything got wrapped up very quickly and in a pretty pink box with a bow. I always wanted to know what happened next. Did Snow White have a hard time training Prince Charming to put down the toilet seat? Did Rapunzel decide that a pixie cut was far more practical and less painful on her neck?

I tried reading the Hobbit when I was nine and all I could wonder was what was so important about some rock? Actually, my memory is fuzzy, so I'm not sure what it was they were after. But whatever it was, it couldn’t have merited half the crap they put themselves through.

I tried reading Bradbury (Something Wicked This Way Comes) and was completely disinterested in what should have been some terribly eccentric characters.

I tried reading the Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe in 5th grade and couldn’t tell you a thing about it to save my life. Except that apparently there was a lion, a witch, and a wardrobe.

I was never a fanciful child. I was a daydreamer, yes, but my fantasies were more along the lines of real-life adventures. I liked the concept of the Swiss Family Robinson. I liked stories about nature, survival, and adventure. I liked history, documentaries, learning about real people and their trials and tribulations. Real people that had gone through real journeys, which meant that I could do the same. A promise of possibility. These fantasies were reachable. This was something within my grasp. All that other stuff just seemed like a pile of lies. And I always felt like someone was trying to pull one over on me. Let’s see how gullible she is….Let’s see if she buys it. No thank you. You can take your little gremlins and your flying monkeys with you on your way out, thank you very much, I’ll stay here with my tales of journeys around the world.

I think that there were aspects about my life that didn’t let me harbor any ideas about magical solutions. My solutions were always hard won. I earned them. I would not have them dismissed or undermined by some silliness. I liked my books tragic, real, challenging, hopeful, promising, and instructive. I like finding tools for myself in them. Not metaphoric tools. I had no time for symbolic puzzles. I wanted real life tools. Strategies I could put into place immediately.

I think Fantasy was like a religion to me. A religion I wasn’t buying. I resisted it, actively, versus tolerating it and dismissing it. I openly taunted the premise of so many books that I came across. They felt like silly things, meant to distract me from what was real. And I could never really afford to lay down my guard that way. I lived in a very real world and had to stay there.

I think that today, as an adult, I have a combined reaction to them. On the one hand, they continue to be these senseless adventures, but now, from my limited experience, they are also terribly unfit to compete in the big leagues that I've been accustomed to. I grew up with the classics from around the world. Epics, stories of entire generations and tales of strife and persistence. Told in poetic cadence. These writers of the classics knew how to weave the music of words. They are not just a venue, they are to be enjoyed, themselves. Used capably, they were their own reward. I don’t find this distinction in Fantasy writing. Words are cold, meant only to narrate, not so much to be heard. I can’t bond with such a use. I need my words to reach me, to envelope me, to make me feel. I need good writing.

For me, reading Fantasy is like reading a Harlequin novel or watching reality TV. I have to wonder why these characters should exist. They serve no purpose.

That’s just me, though.