Surrounded by Characters

We're all characters in a metanarrative. But who gets to be the protagonist?

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Are you ready?

This blog is about to make a comeback. Contain your excitement. And stay tuned.

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A Lonely Boy

“A lonely boy exploring shadows. It must be beautiful.”

I just finished the first book in the Voyage series by Zachary Bonelli, and I might have a new favorite protagonist. Kal Anders is nerdy, sensitive, and determined to help others more than himself, and refreshingly, the fact that Kal is gay plays little into the plot of the story, besides the occasional lingering glance at an attractive boy. Kal’s main character idiosyncrasies come from his isolation, spending his teenage years away from his family and friends, all alone on a strange planet.

On his quest, Kal might be searching for a way to return home to Earth, but what he’s really finding along the way is a redefined sense of belonging. In each world that he visits, Kal encounters social structures that he can mimic, maybe even embrace, but he has seen too much, experienced too much to fully integrate himself into a new life. Often, Kal is too smart and too caring for his own good and ends up making trouble for himself and, unfortunately, for others.

Kal’s sexuality comes into full play when he goes to college in the second-to-last chapter, on the world Irth. Though more institutionalized, the homophobia of this world is strikingly similar to our own, a world in which the social dogma against homosexuality is as ridiculous as antiquated customs like “No eating squash on alternating Wednesdays and Fridays,” but homophobia is prevalent nonetheless.

Most gay protagonists of fantasy and sci-fi literature struggle with their sexuality through the plot of their stories, while their adventures and quests are the common ground with their straight character counterparts. In Voyage: Embarkation, Zachary Bonelli rejects this standard and inverts the metaphor. Kal’s sexuality is commonplace, while his metaxic adventures are what make him ‘abnormal.’ I wanted to hug him, kiss him, and cry for him, all at the same time. Now I HAVE to read the next book.

“Everywhere I go,” Kal began softly, “I have to explain to people how I’m different, and I have to figure out how to navigate rules I don’t understand.”

http://www.fuzzyhedgehogpress.com/speculative-fiction/voyage/embarkation/ 

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The Royal Garden

(This picture is from the Tuileries Garden in Paris)

I'm in the middle of a new writing project right now, but I've been re-reading through my novel lately for inspiration. I had almost forgotten about this little passage:

Timothy purchased a ticket back to the Interchange, but as he held it in his hand, the words ‘one-way’ jumped out at him. Instead of heading over to the D Platform, Timothy turned to the elevators, not quite sure where he was going but sure enough that he wasn’t ready to leave. Off to one side of the bank of elevators, a large, framed directory listed what could be found on each of the floors. He scanned the list for something, anything, to buy himself some time, and then he noticed floors ninety-four and ninety-five were labeled as the Royal Garden. How could a garden grow in the middle of a skyscraper?

Although the glass elevator rose quickly, with the amount of people getting on and off at various floors, it took several minutes to reach the top of the building. By the time they passed the ninetieth floor, the elevator was higher than all the surrounding buildings and Timothy, who was normally fine with heights, had to turn away from the glass. One of the last two passengers inside, he rushed off as soon as the doors opened on the ninety-fourth floor.

The garden grew by artificial ultraviolet lights in the ceiling, and Timothy noticed a sprinkler system that probably watered it at night. It was a quiet, restful place, with several benches placed picturesquely under trees and a gravel walking path through beds of flowers and herbs. All along the outer edge of the floor, stone statues of people in robes stood in little alcoves of the hedges, and on one side, a spiral bronze staircase led up to the second story. In the exact center of the garden, there was a circular pool of water on which wooden, toy boats were sailing gently from one side to the other. On one of the benches around the pool sat the only other people in the park besides Timothy: a man taking a nap and a woman reading The Petrified Media. Their young son paced around the pool, pushing the boats away from the edge with a stick, so they could continue sailing across the ripples of the water.

Timothy sat on a bench on the other side. He was in love with this strange Kingdom of Flabbergast. He wished he could live on the twenty-ninth floor of a building like the Venn family, ride monorails filed with people, and most of all, be able to explore the city on his own. James and Nancy had no idea how lucky they were.

The woman on the other side of the pond folded up her newspaper, woke her husband, and called after her son. He pushed one final boat into the water and ran after his parents. They left by the elevator.

From his pocket, Timothy took out and unfolded the flyer that Harold had given to him in the Ministry’s office. The Ministry, motwots, the Interchange, all secrets his parents had kept from him. They had never trusted him, but Timothy wished he could say, “Look how far I’ve come now. I found the Interchange, I traveled to Flabbergast, I made it to the City of Avalon, all by myself.”

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"I'm Afraid That's Me, Darling."

Ralph Fiennes' character, Monsieur Gustave, in The Grand Budapest Hotel is Wes Anderson's best creation to date.

He is layered with dimensions. Not only does he go off on poetic and philosophical musings, but he also cuts them short with an "oh, fuck it" and a shot of whiskey. He is nostalgic, not for a former world, but for a world entirely of his own creation. Flamboyant, gay (bi?), selfless and selfish, with just enough naivety to remain funny without trying too hard.

He's also a character that can work across setting, from the hotel, to a train, to a jail, to a monastery, making him the perfect protagonist for an adventure story. And make no mistake, this is a classic Wes Anderson adventure story, but it also explores new territory for Anderson.

Where a normal Anderson film would end, he takes it into a black-and-white scene sequence. The audience knows what has to happen in the story but never expected Wes Anderson to be the one to take them there. The mere character of M. Gustave keeps the coherence between the familiar and the strange.

SPOILER: The best (but also worst) part is that, unlike the rest of Anderson's characters, in all of his films, M. Gustave comes to a tragic end. And the film is left in heartbreak, for both nostalgia and injustice. 

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(from the Levi’s “Go Forth” commercial, featuring Walt Whitman’s “America”)

Although wit, catchphrases, and humor are still staples of TV commercials, a new trend is emerging: the use of famous poems read as voice-overs to pathos-invoking ads. These commercials feature poems that would be...

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JKR confirms: Harry & Hermione More Than Fanfic

I'm not usually one to condone authors trying to influence their novels' interpretations after publication, but this is one time when I'm glad she spoke up.

JK Rowling has revealed in an interview with Emma Watson that Hermione should have ended up with Harry, not Ron. This is something I have always believed and part of why the last book disappointed me. Rowling said that she originally thought Hermione and Ron would develop a relationship in the series, and she put them together just to fulfill her personal first conception of the series.

I don't blame her, but I'm glad she has recognized the mistake. I do not think this should ruin the series for anyone. It just goes to show that characters are people, and sometimes they act in ways we can't predict.

To read the article, visit: http://www.hypable.com/2014/02/01/jk-rowling-ron-hermione-relationship-regret-interview/

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Labor Day

"They were like the two Apollo astronauts who moved together along the surface of the moon, while their trusty companion stayed behind in the space capsule, monitoring the controls and making sure things were all right"

I just finished reading Labor Day by Joyce Maynard (the picture above is a film still of the movie based on the book). While it wasn't the best written novel in the world, there were some scenes just too beautiful to not love.

How poignantly sex played a role in the development of the novel was so interesting. The narrator Henry is a twelve-year-old boy (no explanation necessary), but more importantly, his mother is a recluse who hasn't been with someone in several years. Frank, the escaped convict whom they take into their home, is a starkly public person. Thus, just as Henry is beginning to feel sexual attraction, he consistently overhears his mother having sex with Frank in the next room, which is something of a sexual re-awakening for herself. Needless to say, when Henry finally has the opportunity for his own sexual exploration with a girl from his school, he is unable to perform an act which, for him, has taken on connotations of danger and secrecy.

What's even more perfect (or rather, perfectly devastating) is that his refusal to have sex with her has catastrophic results for the rest of the novel. Without giving too much away, I'll just say that I admire Maynard for being able to equate sex with trust, submission, desire, and love all at once.

On another note, the movie is from one of my favorite directors, Jason Reitman, and everyone should go see it.

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The Weight of Words

"You smell of decayed syllables." -Norton Juster, The Phantom Tollbooth

Author and poet Gertrude Stein believed that words have a very real, tangible weight and that placing words next to each other would create an emotional response for the reader. Coupling this belief with her love of Picasso's cubism movement, Stein wrote a series of "cubist" poems, in which random words are placed together to evoke a broader image.

The poems are terrible. But I think her theory of the weight of words holds true nonetheless, and other poets have picked up on this idea.

Tony Hoagland's poem "Dickhead" describes the weight of a curse word to an adolescent boy and the ability to wield it like a blunt instrument.

In her most recent collection of poetry Now, Now, Jennifer Maier writes several poems about the memory of words, as if they are collectible remnants of a former time.

Even beyond poets, the weight of words has made it into fiction. In the children's novel The Phantom Tollbooth, Norton Juster depicts a dinner scene in which the words spoken are not only real but edible--or in some cases very inedible.

In contemporary literary fiction, David Wroblewski uses his mute protagonist to describe the shape and feel of words in The Story of Edgar Sawtelle.

As for myself, I find the weight of words to be penetrating, especially when juxtaposed (like Stein would argue) with the weight of others. The word kissing sends awkward flutters through my skin, unless it's used as Joe Wilkins did in his "Garage Sale Daze Meditations," in which a girl's shoes are  "kiss-kissing cold cement." No flutters here. Shivers. The word alone now feels sharp against me, like a cold steel blade. Without a doubt, words have weight. 

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Can I touch your book?

Speaking of weird characters, my boss has a weird habit of asking if she can touch whatever book I'm reading. 

"Can I touch your book?"

She's said that to me half a dozen times already. I don't think she means it the way it sounds, but still...

II mean, would YOU let someone touch YOUR book?

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Writers' Feuds

William Faulkner on Ernest Hemingway: He has never been known to use a word that might send a reader to the dictionary.

Hemingway on Faulkner: Poor Faulkner. Does he really think big emotions come from big words?

Carson McCullers: I have more to say than Hemingway, and God knows, I say it better than Faulkner.

Someday I want to be famous enough to have my own feud with another writer.

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The Man-Moth

“Each night he must

be carried through artificial tunnels and dream recurrent dreams.

Just as the ties recur beneath his train, these underlie

his rushing brain. He does not dare look out the window,

for the third rail, the unbroken draught of poison,

runs there beside him. He regards it as a disease

he has inherited the susceptibility to. He has to keep

his hands in his pockets, as others must wear mufflers.”

(from “The Man-Moth” by Elizabeth Bishop)

I have read bits of Elizabeth Bishop poetry before, but today I discovered her surrealist poem “The Man-Moth” for the first time. The poem tells of an almost-human man who lives underground and only occasionally comes to the surface—in the night, of course—and climbs the buildings in an attempt to reach the moon, which he assumes is a hole in the sky. He is fearful and timid of all around him, and though he fails to understand the world, he is also captured by an intense curiosity.

The poem is, more or less, an affirmation of imagination and the pure emotion that accompanies the solitude of an artist’s life. However, the man-moth also has an obsession. In the stanza quoted above, he is constantly tempted to touch the third rail of the subway, the electrical current that, upon touching, kills immediately. He even must “keep/ his hands in his pockets” to keep from touching it.

At what point does an individualistic curiosity flirt with death? Is this dark tendency a prerequisite for art (or at least, great art)? With how many great poets, writers, and artists become obsessed with death—even suicidal—I’m inclined to think it might be so. In fact, I don’t know how one can truly express a curiosity for the world without an intense curiosity of mortality.

Sure enough, the man-moth is a tortured soul, but his tears are “cool as from underground springs and pure enough to drink cool as from underground springs and pure enough to drink.”  

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I'm Draco Malfoy and That's Okay

My friend and I had a debate last night about whether or not Draco Malfoy, from the Harry Potter series, is an INTJ. For those of you who don't know, INTJ is a Myers-Briggs personality type, standing for Introversion, Intuition, Thinking, and Judgment. From the Wikipedia definition, "Hallmarks of the INTJ include independence of thought and a desire for efficiency. They work best when given autonomy and creative freedom. INTJs develop a strong confidence in their ability and talents, making them natural leaders.  By nature INTJs can be demanding in their expectations, and approach relationships in a rational manner. At times, INTJs seem cold, reserved, and unresponsive, while in fact they are almost hypersensitive to signals of rejection from those they care for."

Draco Malfoy is often labeled as an INTJ in character evaluations, and the conversation veered onto this topic because I am, myself, an INTJ. I proudly embrace my association with Malfoy (he is, believe it or not, my favorite character from the series--perhaps a topic for a later post), and I completely agree with his Myers-Briggs type.

The crux of my friend's argument was that Malfoy was really an INFJ or even an INFP due to his unquestioning loyalty and voluntary submission to Voldemort. INTJs are often skeptical of others' plans and do not have much respect for authority. However, it's precisely for that reason that I believe Malfoy really is an INTJ. The turning point for Malfoy is when he fails to kill Dumbledore on the astronomy tower. His loyalty is not to Voldemort as much as it is to the superiority of the magical race, to an abstract ideal, and Dumbledore, despite his opposing ideas and mixed blood heritage, is no doubt a great wizard, a great wizard who even teaches other great wizards, continuing the legacy of magic. Even Draco Malfoy must respect that. To kill him would not be part of Malfoy's "plan" for magical supremacy. Furthermore, when Voldemort dies, Malfoy and his parents flee instead of standing with their fellow Death Eaters. Fleeing is the cowardly choice, yes, but more importantly, Malfoy lives to send his own children to Hogwarts someday, not in shame but pride, in the hope of continuing the magical legacy.

As for me, I will try very hard not to join a dark cult or destroy the world or use a vanishing cabinet for evil, but I do think, as an INTJ, I can learn a thing or two from Malfoy. In fact, I think we can all learn from him. Namely, sometimes we're going to think we're right for a very long time, then suddenly realize we're wrong. Just like Draco's mother Narcissa when she protected Harry in the forest, it's okay to change sides. It's more important to see the end goal than preserve our plan of how to get there.  

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American Hustle

Finally watched American Hustle today. If anyone can pull off a rocking house-dusting montage, it's Jennifer Lawrence.

Also, best character in the entire movie? Definitely. Talk about the only one with total control and an uncompromising worldview. Love it.

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Character Development through Interaction

"What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff - I mean if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them."

Here I go on one of my rants again. Contrary to how it is often taught, The Catcher in the Rye is not a coming-of-age novel, a bildungsroman for all you English majors. Holden Caulfield's internal conflict is NOT that he doesn't want to grow up. He's not some angsty Peter Pan. Rather, his conflict is that he doesn't like change, and more importantly, he is too insecure to admit his vulnerabilities.

Does he really hate the movies because they're "phony," or does he hate them for taking his brother so far away from home? He's scared to miss anyone from his school, and his favorite place in New York is the Museum of Natural History. Why does he care about where the all the ducks go when the pond freezes? Because it's change.

Of course, the leading culprit for misinterpretation is the scene in which the novel gains its title. Holden pictures himself as the "catcher in the rye," at the edge of a cliff, catching children from falling over as they play. Many see this act as a protection of youth. I prefer to see it as the protection of happiness and innocence. Not the naïve innocence of youth, but the blissful innocence of a world without surprises or conflict. Holden himself is not happy--clearly depressed, in fact--most likely due to a distant family, as hinted at throughout the book, so he creates a duty for himself to save others.

Here's my point though: how does Salinger create character development in a protagonist so resistant to change? What can Salinger do except let Holden attempt suicide? And make no mistake, the end of the novel is a suicide attempt. Is he really saying that death is the only way to cope with change?

No, Holden develops through interactions with other characters. In particular, his sister Phoebe rejects his red hunting hat, a symbol of his insular protectionism, and she can only ride the carousel in circles for so long. More importantly, his brother comes to pick him up at the hospital. It's the thought of seeing his brother--the ability to miss someone emotionally and look forward to seeing them again--that saves Holden. By the end of the novel, Holden is not just an individual. He's a character in a community. And that's my point. Character development comes through interaction.

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I think when writing a character, no matter what gender, age, or race, the word “strong” is surprisingly weak when going up against a more powerful word, “interesting.”

Doug Walker [x] (via iwfr-nc-gifs)

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To Those who Don't Make the cut

This post is about a character who is very dear to me, a character from the very beginning. Edwin (or at times referred to as Mr. E) was a rather insane man whose thoughts often drifted off into nonsense, while at times converging into perfect clarity. He had a pet toad (don't ask me what its name was), and he told jokes that didn't make any sense. He was a "drifter" who rode transports without paying for a ticket. He brought comic relief to tense situations and also served as the perfect "prophetic voice" for the story. His sincerity also provided bittersweet moments of resolution.

Unfortunately, as great as he was, Edwin didn't add anything to the plot, and as the novel continued to shift, he didn’t add anything thematically either. He had to go. That doesn't make him unimportant, just not part of this story. As consolation, I named a cactus after him. (I don't really like living things, so my friend gave me a small cactus for my apartment.)

Maybe all of our unused characters have their own story somewhere, and they're fantastic friends with wild adventures. I hope so.

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