I Don't Believe In Depressing Fiction

Finally, I figured out why it is that I don't like depressing fiction in any form. I thought about trying to explain this to some of the people that know me in person, but really, it's a kind of weird, complicated answer and it would sound silly in person.

It might still sound silly written down, but at least here you all expect me to be strange :D So, blogging it is.

(You do expect strangeness, don't you? If not, I'm not sure where you've been the last few years.......)

So, on to today's randomness: why I don't like depressing fiction.

For years, now, when people try to convince me to watch a sad or depressing film or read a sad or depressing book, I've resisted. When pressed for a reason why, the best I've been able to come up with is that my life is sad enough, why would I want to be sad in fiction too? And besides, I'm a writer, it's my job to resonate with the feelings of characters, and when I read/watch depressing/sad fiction, my imagination goes crazy putting me in that situation, and it's really depressing/sad.

Now, all of this is true, but in a way (I've discovered in Today's Random Brainwave), it's also the cop-out answer. Because the real answer is much... well, stranger, and more complicated.

You see, I realised this morning - or perhaps late last night, I can't recall now and it doesn't matter* - that it's because deep down, I don't really believe in it. Now, you can see why that would sound majorly strange in person: no, sorry, I won't watch depressing movies, I don't believe in them.

Um, yeeeeah. And I'll bet you don't believe in the lovely men in white coats who I'm just going to go call now to come visit you... Riiiight.

*ahem*

But this is why I like writing: it allows me to clarify, and no one can interrupt me until I'm done, bwa ha ha. >:) (control freak, much?) Because what I really mean is this: I don't believe in it for me.

Now, don't get me wrong: I've had my share of crap in life. Friends dying suddenly with no warning, family dying prolonged-ly after many many years when we thought it might all be all right; parents divorcing during my final year of high school, my husband having study-induced depression; me having depression; other friends having depression and attempting suicide. Pets dying, financial strain, life pressures - yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah. Been there done that.

BUT.

I still don't believe in sad/depressing fiction. Because I believe there's more to life. It might be that I'm religious, or it might just be that my personality is this way, but deep down inside of me, I am never, ever convinced that the sad stuff, the bad stuff, is all there is - or even that it will win. There's always a light at the end of the tunnel, and even if it's a train, well, at least if you're clinging to the tracks as the train barrels over you, desperately hoping that it's not going to collect you as it whizzes past - at least you're lying down. Things can always get worse.

And things can always get better.

And, I don't know. My mind insists on the better. It's like that story I heard once in high school (probably junior high to you USAians) about the man who'd somehow managed to break both legs falling from something (or something, yay fuzzy memories) and yet was smiling and laughing and joking when the ambulance people came to pick him up. They asked him how he could be so happy, and he told them, "In life, we have only one choice: to be happy with what we have, or to be sad. I choose to be happy."

Now, y'all that know me will be shaking your heads and raising dubious eyebrows here, because HELLO, we all know I'm hardly Miss Queen of Peppiness, especially if it's before 8 in the morning. I'm not claiming to be some kind of super-freak happy queen. All I'm saying is, I trust in my deepest of deeps that everything will work out okay in the end. I live by the saying, "Everything will be okay in the end. If it's not okay, it's not the end."

So depressing fiction that says there's no hope, that there is nothing in the world worth saving or living for, or even that there is nothing at-all-zero-zilch-absolutely to be grateful for, in even a tragic situation - well, it just doesn't fit with my world view. It doesn't resonate with me. I have to work to 'get' it.

And really, when there's so much good fiction out there, why waste time on something I know I'm going to have to make an effort to get, and that the 'getting' thereof will make me sad?

Well, because it's good for me and expands my horizons and reminds me how other people live and all that blah blah blah. I know that. Which is why, every now and then, I let myself be convinced and I watch/read something sad/depressing. And cry for the rest of the day :P ;)

So there you go. My random piece of strangeness for the day, allowing you to see deeper into the inner workings of the mind of the Inkly One. You may now run away screaming; I promise not to chase you.

* Clearly evidenced by the fact that I spent not only a parenthetical comment on it, but also a footnote :P

Art and Emotion

What is art? It's a big question, one that, with a little thought, I'm sure I could write a book about. Many people have, in fact. What started me thinking about this was the article that Glam posted today on The Innocent Flower. It's a good article, and I recommend you read it :o)

However, there's one thing in the article that really caught my attention - mostly because I disagree with it. Funny how things we disagree with tend to catch our eye like that, isn't it? *grin*

So, what was it that I felt strongly enough about to write a response post? This:

"Art that moves the soul toward feelings of beauty, serenity, or reverence is of greater intrinsic worth to humanity than art which moves the soul toward feelings of sorrow, anger, or horror. Art which may incite the soul toward wickedness has no value whatsoever."

It's an interesting idea, but in my opinion, it's not actually true.

You see, human seem to have this bias towards emotion - and, in fact, to life in general. We tend to harbour this perception that anything that feeling uncomfortable or unhappy must be wrong, bad, and somehow less than worthy.

And you know what? I disagree. There are two emotions in particular that leap to mind when I think of the poor-little-orphaned-emotions-nobody-loves, and I think both of them are very much misunderstood - which is something that we, as writers, cannot afford. We're supposed to deal with the entirety of the human experience, remember? At least, I believe we are ;) That counts for something, since it's my blog, right? O:) But seriously, it's about that weird principle 'honesty' again; not to mention the fact that conflict is the lifeblood of fiction.

The first emotion is sadness. Generally, people don't enjoy being sad. Funny that o.O But think about it for a second: just because we don't necessarily enjoy the feeling - does that make it bad? (And is anyone else thinking of the blatantly obvious vegetable analogy here? As in, I know you don't like your greens but they're good for you...)

Sorrow has a place. Sorrow functions not only as the opposite of happiness, an emotion that serves as a counterpoint and makes the sweet all that sweeter - it's also a necessary and appropriate response to certain situations. I think we'd all agree that someone who felt no sorrow at the death of a loved one was somewhat lacking in the humanity department. Sorrow is part of us, and part of who we are. It's part of life - and it's human. How can we say, then, that a story which moves one to sorrow is somehow of less value than one which moves one to joy? Is not the understanding and realisation of the natural sorrow of life, the tragedy to which we are all born, just as poignant and beautiful as a realisation of the beauty of life? Life is happiness and sadness, not merely one or the other. They're two sides to the coin of existence, both equally necessary. How then can we say that art that evokes one is better than art that evokes the other?

The other emotion that comes to mind in all of this is anger. Anger is a much maligned emotion, even more so than sorrow, despite the fact that it's not nearly as uncomfortable to experience - although to experience another's anger can be quite uncomfortable ;) But here's the question: why?

Ultimately, I think it's because a lot of the anger we see in every day life is misplaced; but because people waste an emotion on pettiness, does this mean it has no place in life? I think not. I would very much hope that anyone, confronted by the harsh reality of the sexual exploitation and abuse of very young children in many countries around the world, but most especially in poverty-stricken areas, would feel some modicum of revulsion and, I hope, anger. How can it be that things like this are allowed to exist in our world? Why? (Rhetorical questions. I know there are (partial) answers to these questions; that's not the point).

Anger, like sorrow - and like happiness, joy, love, peace, and all those other myriad feelings to which human beings are subject - has a place. And art, as well as simply being 'pretty', has a job to do, and part of that job is to both reflect and build up humanity - and any kind of 'building up' which is not grounded firmly in reality and truth is going to be a very shallow building up indeed. If art is to raise the collective spirit of humanity to a higher ideal, it must also seek to confront and overcome the things that hold us back - things to which our natural response must often be sorrow, anger, and regret.

Art does not exist just to make us feel good. It exists to move us, to challenge us, in whatever ways it can - and whatever ways are necessary. It is my hope that one day my stories will do the same.


So, question for you: Are there any works of art (in any medium, including writing) which evoke a traditionally negative emotion in the viewer, but which you particularly love? Marley and Me is probably the most recent book I've read that I loved, but hated at the same time because it was so sad. But despite the fact that I bawled my way through the last three chapters, and that it makes me uneasy and uncomfortable - I love this book. It's beautiful, and it's true. It's honest. So - what about you?

The Danger of Gold Stars

Last week or the week before we discussed why we write. Mostly, it appears, we write for ourselves. It's something we'd do even if we knew we'd never get published (affirmed by a poll on Critique Circle a few months ago).

We're writers; we write.

We also write because we have something to say that we think is of value. I make no secret of the fact that I want my writing to be meaningful, even life-changing ('though to only a small degree is enough) - and yet I still don't understand why. Why do I want to make a difference, and how exactly do I think writing fiction will do that? It's something I'm still exploring, and for now I have no answers.

However, there was another reason that came up that I can discuss right now. It's writing for self-affirmation, or, as one reader put it, writing for gold stars.

Is there anything wrong with wanting public affirmation of your talent, your thoughts, and, inevitably in writing, your self?

No.

Is there anything wrong with that being the entire (or primary) reason you write?

Yes.

Materialism can cause low self-esteem, but here's a newsflash: so can relying on other people's opinions. In any course in life, but particularly in the writing business, putting all your hopes in gold stars can be dangerous. Writing is a brutal game, and if your self esteem is completely tied to your work, then even time someone rejects your work, you'll feel like they're rejecting you - and that can lead you to an unpleasant place.

A leadership/mentoring seminar I once attended described self esteem like this:

Self esteem = what you think people you respect think of you.

Read it again. It's what you think others that you respect think of you. If that's the case, then how do you have any control over it? Can you ever control your own self esteem, or are you doomed to dependence on those around you? If your work is one of the more important aspects of your self, and other reject it, how can you ever have a good self esteem?

Look at the equation closely. There is one aspect you can control.

Mostly, you can't control what you think other people think. You get that impression from their actions, their words, and their general attitude. Sure, sometimes we can get it wrong, but on the whole, it's pretty hard to convince yourself that someone likes you when they're making it obvious that they don't.

What you can control is found in the key phrase, 'who you respect'. People whom you have no respect for aren't important to you; their opinions don't matter. So how to you take control of your self esteem?

Choose carefully who you will respect.

Have standards. Require those whose input you receive to meet those standards (though don't be perfectionistically impossible, naturally!!). And don't make the mistake of thinking that because one person has respectable opinions in one area, they will in another: I can tell you what I think of your writing, but please don't ask me to tell you if you're a good basketball player or not.

Which brings us back to writing.

Although much of what you put into your writing comes from you, ultimately, it isn't you. When you ask people for criticism of your work - or when they give it to you anyway - you're not asking them to critique YOU. They're qualified to crit your work; they're not qualified (mostly) to crit you.

Learn to dissociate yourself from criticism - or writing for publication is going to be an arduous slog (which it is anyway) that will break you in the end.

Mourning the Loss of Another Great

I can't say I've read much of his work, and I know next to nothing about him personally, but no one who knows anything about the genre can deny that Arthur C Clarke was truly a Great.

And two days ago, he died.

I didn't even know he was still alive. And in a way, that makes me ashamed. It makes me feel like I ought to get out into the world and /learn/ more. It makes me want to know more about people, others, be more invested in their lives and the world and its affairs...

And I think, for Mr Clarke, that may be tribute enough.