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Awful Endings

1/28/2019

Okay, I really do apologize to Lewis --- Charles, to use his real name --- as I’ve never laid claim to being any kind of poet. But something (probably the cruel muse I allude to in line 5 of my doggerel) inspired me to write the above. In which case, I apologize to you, too, Constant Blog Reader. But I was motivated to this by musing on two films I showed my classes in the last couple of weeks --- wildly disparate films, even though they nominally belong to the same genre: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe (LWW) --- note appalling lack of Oxford comma, tsk, tsk --- and Pan’s Labyrinth (PL). But they share something in common, as far as I am concerned: truly awful endings, and it is that, Gentle Reader, on which I wish to crankily expostulate today. (So… obviously, we’re dealing with plot spoilers. Just sayin.’)

LWW is the 2005 film adaptation of C.S. Lewis’ beloved 1950 eponymous book. It’s the first of the books he wrote concerning the world of Narnia. And PL is a 2006 film of an original screenplay by Guillermo del Toro. I need to be clear I have no problem with either film’s plot, although I do find PL quite horrific at times, in ways not lending themselves to my tastes. No, it’s the endings I quibble with.

LWW has our four protagonists, the Pevensie children, pass through a wardrobe which is a magical portal to Narnia. Once there, they must overcome the evil White Witch Jadis. which they do. As a reward, they jointly rule Narnia for years… before stumbling over the wardrobe entry and being unceremoniously dumped back in our world, seconds after they left, and the same ages they were at the moment of departure. In the sequel, Prince Caspian, we discover they were seriously bummed about this, and no bloody wonder: after being supreme rulers of an entire kingdom for at least a decade, they have to go back to being very non-descript, anonymous kids? I’d be bummed, too. (Famed science fiction author Frederik Pohl once noted power is like cocaine: it’s addictive, and it rots the mind.) So yeah, I’m really not in love with LWW’s ending. Come on, Jack, why return these kids to our own mortal and rather drab world? They were obviously happy enough in Narnia.

PL had a different type of irksome ending. Ofelia, PL’s 11-year-old female protagonist, is told (by a very tall and truly creepy faun --- not at all like LWW’s Mr. Tumnus, by the way) she is really a fairy princess and needs only to complete three tasks to rejoin her true folks in the fairy underworld. (Right… and that white van parked over there with ‘free candy’ written on it seems legit, too, kids.) The only wrinkle is that this course of action pits Ofelia against her stepfather, a murderous Falangist officer with a penchant for torture. At the film’s climax, Ofelia flees with her newly born brother into the labyrinth which the faun claims is the gateway to the underworld. Stepdad pursues and shoots her (before taking baby bro and leaving the labyrinth, where he in turn meets justice and is summarily shot). As she lies dying, she finds herself in the fairy underworld, congratulated by her real parents for completing the tasks. We think. Or is it merely some dying fantasy her brain engages in? Because back up in our world, she’s still lying there, dying. So… was the whole narrative, with faun, tasks, and fantastic, grotesque creatures… was it real? Or did she imagine the entire thing?

I think Del Toro meant for it to be real… but there’s that doubt. And I, for one, hate it.

Now, ambiguous endings don’t have to be bad. In class, I use a short story titled The Lady or the Tiger by Frank Stockton, a great tale about a ‘semi-barbaric’ princess whose boyfriend has run afoul of her dad, who happens to be king and possessed of very peculiar notions about justice. Transgressors against the king’s laws (which evidently include some variation on that favourite of all dads everywhere, Thou Shalt Not Play Fast and Loose With My Daughter’s Affections) are placed in an arena and compelled to choose one soundproofed door to open. Behind one is a tiger that will messily and publicly eat said transgressor, while behind the other is a beautiful maiden who immediately marries the guy (some cynics would claim both fates are eerily similar). Boyfriend looks to the princess for guidance; she subtly indicates one door to open. Which he does. And then Stockton stops cold, asking: which came out of the door, the lady, or the tiger? And that’s it. Delightful. My kids hate it.

(When I casually mention Stockton wrote a sequel, The Discourager of Hesitancy, which addresses the unanswered question, they clamour to read it. Which we do. And they hate it, too… because Stockton sets up a similar situation and ends the story identically, asking people to choose an alternative based on their perception of human nature. Absolutely no resolution. Like I said, kids hate it. And I may express some amusement over their displeasure.)

But that’s very different from making us wonder whether the entire story actually occurred. (Life of Pi does the same thing, by the way. So do Lewis Carroll’s tales.)

It’s also different from ending on a cliff-hanger. I do that in my novel, Gryphon’s Heir (to a friend’s annoyance, although she admitted she knew why I did it). But at least, with a cliff-hanger, there’s the promise of resolution… it’s just punted down the road a ways.

So… don’t toy with me, Writer. Don’t make me question whether what I’m told happened, really happened. And don’t cheat your protagonists with totally unsatisfying conclusions. Your stories are more real to me than some theoretically real people I have to deal with every day, and I care about your characters.

Above all, don’t trifle with my affections.

Because, to paraphrase Will, ‘tis not a consummation devoutly to be wished.

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Rabbit the Racist

1/21/2019

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Nobody seemed to know where they came from, but there they were in the Forest: Kanga and Baby Roo. When Pooh asked Christopher Robin, "How did they come here?" Christopher Robin said, "In the Usual Way, if you know what I mean, Pooh," and Pooh, who didn't, said "Oh!" Then he nodded his head twice and said, "In the Usual Way. Ah!" Then he went to call upon his friend Piglet to see what he thought about it. And at Piglet's house he found Rabbit. So they all talked about it together.
"What I don't like about it is this," said Rabbit. "Here are we – you, Pooh, and you, Piglet, and Me – and suddenly – "
"And Eeyore," said Pooh.
"And Eeyore – and then suddenly – "
"And Owl," said Pooh.
"And Owl – and then all of a sudden – "
"Oh, and Eeyore," said Pooh. "I was forgetting him."
"Here – we – are," said Rabbit very slowly and carefully, all – of – us, and then, suddenly, we wake up one morning, and what do we find? We find a Strange Animal among us. An animal of whom we had never even heard before! An animal who carries her family about with her in her pocket!”

Well, aficionados of A.A. Milne’s beloved Winnie the Pooh stories (and I count myself as one), There It Is: right smack in the middle of the comfortingly familiar, placid confines of the 100 Acre Wood: Rabbit the racist. Rabbit the xenophobe. Rabbit the intolerant. Who would ha’ thunk it?

Kanga and Roo arrive one day in the Forest. They’re not there, then they’re… just there. And Rabbit takes exception to their presence. Loudly, vocally and viscerally. More than that --- he’s prepared to actually do something about it. (Probably while wearing his Make Our Forest Great Again cap. Oops. Was that my outside voice?) But then he makes his first major mistake by enlisting the aid of his two friends, Piglet and Pooh, who are definitely not criminal masterminds… or masterminds of anything, come to that. And so, not without some stumbling along the way, they hatch a plot: kidnap Roo and hold him until Kanga agrees to take him and leave the Forest. Immediately. Permanently.

Fortunately, Piglet and Pooh are just along for the ride. They share neither Rabbit’s shrill vehemence nor his ugly vision in the matter. And they’re terrible co-conspirators. Fortunately. Because there really isn’t an ounce of malice in them… although, to be scrupulously fair, they haven’t an ounce of gumption, either. Neither says, as they should, “Rabbit, you jerk, this is reprehensible. Give your head a shake, man. I want no part in this travesty; I’m going home because I’m rumbly in my tumbly.” (Yes, I’m perfectly aware this kind of courage and self-awareness is not who they are as characters, thanks very much. And yes, I’m also perfectly aware that if they did that, we’d have no story. Thanks again. Now stop interrupting.)

Anyway, as regards malice, we discover by story’s end, Rabbit possesses none, either. (That’s a Really Important Point we’ll return to momentarily, so remember it, please.) In a hilarious comedy of errors, Pooh completely forgets his role in the conspiracy and goes off to practice emulating one of Kanga’s characteristics he particularly admires --- her ability to make extraordinary jumps --- while Rabbit, Arch-Conspirator Extraordinaire, is actually playing with his captive and, as Mr. Milne relates, “feeling more fond of him every minute.” Thus, it is Piglet, A Very Small Animal who has all along had the terrifyingly accurate premonition he’s going to be the One Left Holding The Bag, who is… well, left holding the bag, compelled by fate and circumstance to attempt to play out a conspiracy he didn’t particularly want any part of and is completely unsuited by nature to participate in. Ah, the Delicious Ironies of Life… alive and well even in the 100 Acre Wood.

Now, it’s worth noting that behaviours, racism included, can spring from pure malice; some twisty individuals simply take pleasure from inflicting pain on others. (That’s called Evil, by the way.) But if there isn’t really any malice in Rabbit’s heart… what is there, then? Why does Rabbit plan and execute this dastardly plot? Well, absent malice, the answer, of course, is simple: he’s afraid. He’s afraid of what he doesn’t know, of what is unfamiliar and different. And why is that? Because we are both hardwired and pre-programmed to fear the unknown. It might contain any number of dangers, you know. And that hardwiring/pre-programming can be very, very difficult to overcome. It certainly can require deliberate cognition. And even then, it’s easy to fall back on nasty old habits at the drop of a hat.

But we must overcome those instincts. We have to. Because, if we don’t, we’re doomed. And justly so.

The noise of a throat being cleared interrupted me as I sat hunched over my computer, and I turned around in surprise to see a small, rather roly-poly furry shape looking over my shoulder.
“So… what you’re saying is what Rabbit did was bad, but in the end, it ended well and everyone made it right,” it said in a growly voice.
I nodded gravely. “That’s exactly what I’m saying, Pooh bear.”
“But it takes more than that outside the 100 Acre Wood?”
I sighed. “I’m afraid so.”
“And people often aren’t very good at that?”
“No, Pooh bear, they aren’t.”
“So… what made you decide to talk about this today, then?”
I considered for a minute. Several replies came to mind, but not wanting to bother a Bear of Very Little Brain with Worldly Pressing Problems, I chose the safest. “Oh,” I said carelessly, “nothing in particular. It was just That Sort of Day.”
It was Pooh’s turn to nod solemnly. “I see.” He paused. “When I’m having That Sort of Day, I go looking for honey or condensed milk or a small smackerel of something. It does make the day better, you know.”
“Excellent idea,” I said approvingly. “Shall we, then?”
And we did.

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Post Hoc Ergo Propter Hoc Indeed

1/14/2019

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Last week, teachers everywhere struggled back to work after a couple of very pleasant weeks of Christmas holiday, where they could do all sorts of things not ordinarily possible. (Like what? you ask. Well, like… oh, I don’t know… little things like not having to rise at the butt-crack of dawn… going to the bathroom whenever one needs to… eating lunch in blissful peace and quiet as the noon sun gradually winds around and bathes the kitchen table in a warm glow, taking as long as one wants, being able to read while enjoying a pot of tea… you know, simple things like that.)

Late in the week, I was stopped by a colleague in the hall outside my classroom, and we exchanged the usual pleasantries about our respective holidays. And since she has read my first novel, Gryphon’s Heir, and is awaiting its sequel, Gryphon’s Awakening, with thinly veiled impatience, she asked, at one point in our conversation, what I like to think of as Standard Question #1: “Did you get any writing done?” Pleased by my affirmative reply, she proceeded immediately to its corollary, Standard Question #2: “So, is it almost finished?”

“Well, I’m not sure,” I replied thoughtfully. “Storyline-wise, knowing where I want this book to end (a cliff hanger, I’m afraid) yes, it is. But the problem is that Rhiss (my protagonist) and his cronies keep doing and saying unexpected things, which have to be addressed and which keep adding on to the narrative.”

My colleague gave me a look I’ve become quite familiar with whenever I say things concerning the nuts and bolts of the writing process to folks who aren’t writers. It’s actually rather similar to the expression parents make when their children do or say something totally nonsensical. I call it the Expression of Polite Disbelief While Wanting To Smack Someone Upside The Head: part perplexed, part sceptical, part exasperated… with just a dash of incomprehension thrown in for good measure.

“But you’re writing it,” she observed with some asperity, accurately (but irrelevantly) enough. “Don’t you know what the characters are going to do?”

Ay, there’s the rub, as Will would say. In fact, it’s a classic case of post hoc ergo propter hoc, you know. (Which is your Latin lesson for the day. The literal translation is “after this, therefore, because of this.” Huh? I hear you grunt. Well, loosely, it refers to the common but usually mistaken idea that simply because one thing/event follows another, the second thing/event must have been caused by the first. You’re welcome.) In writing terms, yes, I’m writing the story… but it doesn’t automatically follow that this means I know what my characters are going to do. At least, not all the time. Or even some of the time, come to that.

Now, this is not a bad thing, not at all, although non-writers --- and some writers, too, come to that --- frequently see it that way. Personally, I think it’s rooted in this insane preoccupation our entire society has with the notion of control, and being in control. (Which is, when you think about it, a completely farcical preoccupation. Why? Because the truth, evidently unpalatable to a lot of people, is that We’re Not. Yup. Really. We can play the Argument Game on this if you want. I’m going to win, though.)

As far as writing is concerned, famed science fiction author Ray Bradbury put it this way: “First, find out what your hero wants, then just follow him!” I wasn’t aware of this particular piece of pithy advice years ago when I first began writing what ultimately became Gryphon’s Heir… but I was soon following it, nonetheless. And nowadays, that’s what I tend to do pretty much most of the time.

Don’t get me wrong: in spare moments, particularly when I’m not near my trusty old Dell Inspiron but am near pen and paper, I do plot out The Ghost Of Scenes Yet To Come. (It’s a great way to look busily productive at a meeting, by the way, as though you’re faithfully taking notes. Well, you are… just not notes concerning the meeting. Back in the Dark Ages, I also used to do this during particularly boring university classes. It used to impress the hell out of my professors, and I felt like I was actually doing something productive with my time, so as far as I was concerned, it was a win-win. And yes, I did pass those courses. A large part of both my undergrad degrees seems to have been spent formally validating things I already knew. Thanks for asking.) And I do attempt to utilize these notes. I’m just not especially surprised or distressed anymore when characters squint at those same notes, look at me with raised eyebrows and jaundiced expression, and say, “Nope. Not gonna do that. Gonna do this instead. See ya round, chump.”

So, when writing, I tend to play Follow the Hero (and the other characters, too, for that matter). It works very well, and while it can be frustrating when they do things I don’t like, it is most often both entertaining and revelatory… although it’s quite difficult to explain to non-writers. They find it hard to grasp that fictional characters can be just as real as the people standing in front of you… in fact, truth be told, at times, more real.

Returning to my colleague and her question… “Well, no, not always,” I admitted. “No more than I know what you’re going to do. Story characters can be maddeningly independent, you know.”

She nodded uncertainly, smiled tentatively… and suddenly recalled something of vital importance she had to do in her classroom. I watched her retreat down the hall. She thinks I’m crazy, I thought to myself.

Ah, you’re not crazy, I replied. Just lovably eccentric.

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Gryphons Galore!

1/7/2019

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So, 2019… here you are, as advertised, and in all honesty, I’m bound to say you’re already looking a little frayed around the edges. Because of that, to cheer you up, I want to start this new year with a post on a find I made a few weeks back, a find that had me cackling with glee while simultaneously warming the cockles of my little writer’s heart. I was in this little boutique-y store called Dragonspace on Vancouver’s Granville Island, a store with an obvious fantasy theme that, as its name obviously suggests, deals heavily with dragons. Which was fine, but as I wandered the aisles festooned with dragon miniatures and other paraphernalia, I thought to myself, pity they don’t have miniatures of any other fantasy creatures, thinking of one in particular. And almost right away, in uncanny refutation, there she was: I found Aquilea! Or rather, I should probably amend that: I found a pretty good three-dimensional facsimile of her. That’s a picture of her above this post. Ain’t she a beaut?

No, no, no: that’s a gryphon (note the spelling, please, which I prefer over the double ‘f’ because it’s closer to the original Greek and just, you know, looks better on the page, so stop hassling me), not an Aquilea. Aquilea is her name. And she’s one of the primary characters in my novel Gryphon’s Heir. I chat about her today to show off her lovely statue and provide a little background as to how she came about in my imagination. Look at those majestic wings, the graceful head, the powerful muscles, the fusion of lion and eagle in legs and body. If you’re not familiar with gryphons, they have a long and honourable place in mythology. With their front half an eagle, and the rear half a lion, they were intended to embody the best and most courageous characteristics of both animals.

Aquilea isn’t the protagonist of Gryphon’s Heir. That would be the human Rhissan Araxis, known to his friends as Rhiss. He saved her life when she was very young, right after finding himself transported into a pretty remarkable setting and some pretty remarkable circumstances. Her mother had just been killed by another flying beast, a nasty, malevolent thing called a Malmoridai, and Rhiss, who’s always had a soft spot for the underdog, came to Aquilea’s rescue. In return, she’s become his devoted companion. They don’t actually talk to each other, not verbally at any rate, although Aquilea is every bit as intelligent as a human. But they do converse --- sort of --- mind to mind. It’s something Rhiss had to be taught how to do, and the process is still evolving --- one of only a number of things that makes their relationship so delightful to me.

So… I’ve been asked a number of times… where did the idea of Aquilea originate?

Well, I started with Rhiss, my protagonist. (He’s based a little on me. Well, okay, quite a lot.) I didn’t have the title, to begin with. But I needed creatures for a conflict. I already had a bad creature in mind. Now I needed a good creature, one that would be intelligent and form a close relationship with Rhiss. And I wanted it able to fly. But what? A dragon? Nope. Tolkien’s Smaug, McCaffrey’s Dragons of Pern, and Paolini’s Saphira immediately came to mind, and I didn’t want such an obvious similarity. Hmm. An eagle? Nope, Tolkien again. Hmm. Flying mythological animals, I thought, mentally running through the catalogue. What about some sort of hybrid? And the gryphon just came to me in a flash. I wasn’t aware of any as famous as Smaug, which was an important consideration --- that was then, of course; since my book’s publication, I have belatedly discovered the gryphon is evidently used much more often by fantasy authors than I was aware of at the time. However and oh well, he said, shrugging pragmatically. I’m very attached to Aquilea, whose name I thought of, using the Latin words for eagle and lion. Like Rhiss, I’m sure there could be some linguist out there to quibble with the proper construction of the name, but frankly, Scarlet, I don’t give a damn. I like it.

And so there she was, in one fell swoop, if you’ll pardon the pun. Why a female? I really don’t know. She just was. Had to be. Always had been. I can’t say rationally beyond that, because I don’t know. Some things in life, you just know with utter certainty. You don’t know how or why you know what you know, but by gosh, you do. And I can tell you that Aquilea had to be a girl. Ah QUILL leah. Three syllables, emphasis on the middle one, and don’t ask why, because again, That’s Just The Way It Had To Be.

By the way, in case you’re wondering, yes, Aquilea flew home… although she was in the aircraft cabin with us, not cruising through the clouds under her own power. She endured the indignity of being carry-on luggage quite well, although I’m sure I heard her sniff disdainfully when I informed her of the arrangements (she doesn’t suffer fools gladly, you know). I was actually a little worried about taking her on board with us as carry-on, because sometimes you encounter airport security people with absolutely no sense of humour at all (although I can imagine it’s a fairly thankless job) --- you know the type: oh no, you can’t take that on board! It’s a weapon! --- and if I’d had that misfortune, well, there’s no arguing with them. But fortunately, there were no difficulties. Not surprisingly, Aquilea attracted her fair share of attention from the security people, but it was of the admiring sort, not the suspicious.

And I like to think she preened, just a little bit, as the security people gave her their admiring attention.

Because, to paraphrase A.A. Milne, she’s that sort of gryphon.

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D.R. RANSHAW

Awful Endings

Rabbit the Racist

Post Hoc Ergo Propter Hoc Indeed

Gryphons Galore!

D.R. Ranshaw's Blog

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