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2 Degree or Not 2 Degree

3/18/2019

Part of my Sunday afternoon routine over the last three and a half years usually involves writing a blog post. It’s something I generally enjoy, provided I’ve got a topic to write about. Which is rather a big-ass proviso, I must confess. If I do have a topic --- which I may have had anywhere from twenty minutes to a week prior --- no problemo. I sit down at my trusty old Dell Inspiron, metaphorically crack my knuckles a time or two, adjust my sitting position in my chair in that humming, self-satisfied way we’ve all seen Winnie the Pooh do as he gets ready for a small smackerel of something at Rabbit’s house, and happily plunge in. A couple of hours or so later, there it is, Ye Olde Blog Poste, ready to be released to the clamouring, impatient masses on Monday morning. (Well, I like to delude myself they’re all clamouring impatiently for my pearls of wisdom. Just go with me on that one, please. We all have our little self-delusions, you know. Sometimes, they’re what makes life livable.)

But… if I have to hunt for a topic… if I’ve gotten a text from the Muse saying she’s busy this afternoon and won’t be stopping by, sorry… well, any writer who’s ever sought inspiration (read: every writer ever, at least of woman born --- come to think of it, even a few who weren’t --- yes, I mean you, Macduff, you scallywag) will tell you it’s an agonizing process. To paraphrase James Branch Cabell, you are pregnant with words, and must have lexicological parturition, or you die… but that baby is just adamant it ain’t comin’ now, or any time soon, either. It’s stuck… rather like Pooh trying to exit Rabbit’s house after that small smackerel which really wasn’t small.

What do you do in that situation? you ask. Well, personally, I look about me for inspiration. Things I’ve done in the last week. Places I’ve been. People I’ve met. Things I’ve said, or heard. Even, God help us, posts on social media…

…like one I just saw: a Tweet asking if you need a Master’s degree in Creative Writing (presumably to be a successful writer, although the Tweet didn’t specify that). Aha! That’s enough to fire up the creative juices, so here we go…

(You just took 370 words to get to your actual topic? some of you ask disbelievingly. Yep. Sure did. My pulpit, my rules. Nobody’s forcing you to read this, are they? Besides, I’m reminded of Russell Crowe’s character in the film Gladiator as he shouts to the crowd: “Are you not entertained?!”)

So. Master’s degree in Creative Writing: aye or nay? Well, perhaps the simplest way to explain this is to relate the explanation comedian Don Harron provided about academic qualifications years ago, one that’s long stuck with me because there are times I think there’s much truth to it: “First, you have your BS, and we all know what that means. Then you have your MS, which means More of the Same. Finally, you have your PhD, which means Piled Higher ‘n Deeper.”

(I have to be careful here, because my own niece recently earned her Master’s in Creative Writing. Which, I swear, had absolutely nothing to do with today’s post. So, if she ever reads this: my dear, I am not disparaging your achievement. Not at all. Will it stand you in good stead? I’m sure of it. Will it, on its own, make you a world-class writer? Hmm, doubtful. And I think you’d agree. We should discuss it sometime…)

Now, lest you think me some raving anti-intellectual crank, let me reassure you on that immediately. As the long-time holder of two undergrad university degrees, and a career secondary school educator (“34 and a half years, and I’ve the scars to prove it,” he muttered creakily), I’m all in favour of academic qualifications. What I’m less enamoured with is the way our society tends to tout them as the be-all and end-all for success. Particularly in any field relying on a personal gift of brilliance to do well --- which is to say, any field more demanding than running groceries through a checkout scanner.

Most employers tend to do this. Oh, yes, they say, you must have a Master’s degree to be a (fill in the position here). Which is all well and good, I suppose, but I’ve known hell’s own herd of turkeys with Master’s degrees possessing absolutely no leadership or organizational skills at all. No ability to see both the broad vision and the details required to attain it.

Folks, academic qualifications are absolutely necessary to provide validation that the person holding them has been exposed to certain basic standards and has demonstrated the capacity to meet those standards. And that’s a good and needful thing. (Although modern education seems determined to wilfully destroy those standards, and believe me, I know whereof I speak. But that’s a whole other discussion for another time. Once I’ve retired. Which will be soon.)

But it doesn’t mean the person will be brilliant at what they do. My BEd degree implicitly stated I had the qualifications required to be a teacher, according to broadly defined standards; it didn’t necessarily mean I was going to be a great teacher (although I hope my students might think I am, bless their hormonal little hearts). Because you can’t teach greatness: it’s either there, or it isn’t. Oh, you can teach people to be competent at what they do, by and large. But you can’t teach them to be truly great. That relies on an inner spark and an inner gift beyond the capacity of humans to bestow in any sort of classroom. Sure, that spark can be fanned and nurtured --- that’s what great teachers do --- but it can’t be created where it doesn’t exist. So let’s stop pretending it can.

Returning to my original question: Master’s in Creative Writing, aye or nay… well, how about a very definite noncommittal shrug? Followed by: sure, if you want to. Just don’t do it thinking it will make you the next Tolkien, Rowling, Dickens, or Shakespeare.

‘Cause it doesn’t work like that.

Never has. Never will.

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Can We Spare A Little Change?

3/11/2019

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A shadow passed over Saruman’s face; then it went deathly white. Before he could conceal it, they saw through the mask the anguish of a mind in doubt, loathing to stay and dreading to leave its refuge. For a second, he hesitated, and no one breathed.
-J.R.R. Tolkien, The Two Towers

You know, on at least one level, you have to feel sorry for Saruman --- well, I do, anyway, particularly over that little excerpt above, which we’ll get into in a minute. But let’s do a little background for a moment on how we arrived at that moment in the narrative.

In Tolkien’s Middle Earth --- the setting for his epic fantasy The Lord of the Rings --- Saruman’s kind of a Big Thing. He’s been head of The White Council, a group of similar Big Characters possessing major magical powers, who have, between them, achieved some fairly spectacular feats in their time. Problem is, like most of us tend to do at some point in our lives, Saruman’s gone and made a cataclysmically bad decision, one that will prove to have life-altering consequences for him: he’s turned traitor to the White Council and the forces of good by allying himself to Sauron, the biggest, baddest villain you could ever hope not to meet. If that isn’t awful enough, by the time we get to the quote above, Saruman’s army has been destroyed and his impregnable fortress of Isengard has turned out not to be impregnable after all; in fact, it’s a sodden, crumbling mess, invested and destroyed by his erstwhile allies, now his adversaries, and he’s reaching the unpalatable conclusion that all his treachery and schemes have come to naught. It’s fair to state he’s having the mother of all really bad days.

But then… surprise! He’s offered mercy and clemency by his one-time number 2 wizard, Gandalf. The fact that he foolishly turns it down out of a misplaced sense of overweening pride is fascinating… but not really the subject I want to moot around today.

Huh? you say. What ARE we talking about, then? Well, folks, it’s simple: the concept of change and how difficult it is for most of us. Look at that quote, and in particular the lovely, lovely descriptive phrase Tolkien crafted: the anguish of a mind in doubt, loathing to stay and dreading to leave its refuge. Magnificent. Isn’t that how many of us --- literary characters and “real” people alike --- approach change? Not wanting to stay where we are, in the circumstances we’re experiencing… but simultaneously supremely reluctant to step out in faith and do something or go somewhere new?

I’d say we can group people (and literary characters) into three broad categories when we discuss the concept of change: those who hate/fear it with the white-hot intensity of a thousand suns and will do just about anything to resist it; those who throw caution to the wind and embrace it with heedless, enthusiastic abandon; and a quiet middle group who really aren’t enthusiastic, but resignedly recognize the futility of attempting to halt the process of change and so will proceed, attempting to make the best of things (and mitigate any possible damage caused in the process). You need to be wary about the first and last groups, I think, because, as we’re all too wearily aware from history --- and current events --- hate and fear can drive people to do pretty ugly things. So can unbridled optimism that fails to look at possible negative repercussions.

As I approach my impending retirement after a successful and mostly very enjoyable teaching career spanning 34 years… I’m trying very hard to place myself in that middle group. At times, it’s all too easy to identify with Saruman’s take on his dilemma, but I’m working on looking at it as a new chapter, full of opportunities. I don’t want to stay in Orthanc, gazing out over a dreary, flooded mess. I want to accept Gandalf’s invitation when he says: “Nay, I do not think I will come up. But listen, Saruman, for the last time! Will you not come down? Isengard has proved less strong than your hope and fancy made it. So may other things in which you still have trust. Would it not be well to leave it for a while? To turn to new things, perhaps? Think well, Saruman! Will you not come down?”

Now, how could anyone in their right mind turn down an invitation like that?

(And among other things, I hope it will give me more time and energy to write!)

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So, What's With Max, Anyway?

3/4/2019

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Let’s talk about a Christmas story today, shall we? Yes, thanks, I’m only too aware it’s not Christmas… but I’ve had a question spiralling lazily through my conscious (and probably subconscious, too) on and off, lo, these past three months, and in that mysterious manner often afflicting writers, expectant mothers, and children in classes at the end of a period --- among other disparate and unlikely groups --- I can simply and definitively say: it’s time. For those of you who don’t understand that rationale, I have a simpler one: shut up, he explained. Moving on…

So, here’s the question: what is it with Max?

Max is, of course, the Grinch’s dog from Dr. Seuss’ classic children’s tale of Yuletide morality, How the Grinch Stole Christmas. The Grinch, for the benefit of the half-dozen people on the planet unfamiliar with the story, is a nasty, cackling, ill-tempered, intolerant hermit living on a mountain summit (“the top of Mount Crumpit”) in self-imposed isolation above the small village of Whoville, populated by fanciful creatures called, unsurprisingly, the Whos. In spite of, or perhaps because of, their unrelentingly cheerful demeanour, they are, in fact, both antithetical and anathema to the Grinch, so on Christmas Eve, anticipating their imminently joyful, noisy Christmas Day celebrations, he determines to sabotage things for the Whos. Annnnd he enlists Max to assist.

(By the way, I’m confining my observations to the original text and the beloved 1966 animated cartoon, ‘cause I regard it as canonical, seeing as how Dr. Seuss was involved with it, actually writing the lyrics to “You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch.” Given that the author passed away in 1991, we’ll never know if he would have approved of the 2000 and the 2018 films. Personally, I didn’t like the 2000 release at all --- sorry, Jim Carrey fans --- and I haven’t seen the 2018 one.)

Now, it’s worth noting Max has a far larger role in the cartoon than he does in the book --- mostly for comic relief, apparently, as well as to provide a roadmap of the Grinch’s awfulness, because in the cartoon, we’re frequently treated to scenes of Max breaking the fourth wall and giving us soulful gazes of baffled sorrow at his owner’s evil antics. In the book, Max is a much less important character, little more than a glorified extra, actually, and certainly not possessed of anywhere near the personality or importance to the narrative that the cartoon bestows on him.

So that’s the background… returning to my question: what is it with Max?

The question relates to both characters, really, and I think is worthy of examination from a writing viewpoint. (Although we need to tread carefully, because the question skates rather uncomfortably close to the issue of domestic violence/abuse.) First, from the Grinch’s perspective: why would a character like this --- a thoroughly unsavoury protagonist if ever there was one --- even have a pet in the first place? Since this is a Dr. Seuss story, I think we can rule out the horrid idea that it’s to abuse Max. Thankfully. So, then… could it be that even the Grinch is not quite as loftily self-sufficient as he’d like to project? That even he needs some companionship, someone to talk to?

Second --- and possibly the more important question, not only from Max’s perspective, but for our own morbid curiosity: why does he stick around someone as obnoxious as the Grinch? After all, the Whos are just a quick sleigh ride down the mountain in Whoville, and it’s a cinch they’d welcome Max with open arms. (Actually, they do, at least in the cartoon ---there’s no equivalent scene in the book --- so… QED.) He’s aware of that fact, too, in the cartoon, looking dreamily down at Whoville. So, the question remains: why does he tolerate living with the Grinch? Because the tale emanates from good old Dr. Seuss, I think we can (again, thankfully) rule out the idea that Max feels trapped in an abusive relationship and doesn’t know how to leave. What does that leave us with, then? Well, the idea that Max stays because he knows the Grinch really needs him, and Max is also aware that remaining with the Grinch presents an opportunity to do some good. (Because if ever there was a character in need of redemption, it’s the Grinch.)

Now, we have to be careful not to do too much navel-gazing on this issue in this tale. It’s a kid’s story, after all, not a major philosophical treatise on human nature written by Aristotle. If it was an adult story (i.e. a story written solely for an older audience, unlike the extant version which is applicable to both children and adults --- remember what Jack Lewis said on that topic: “A children's story that can only be enjoyed by children is not a good children's story in the slightest”), then the potential is there for my original question to contain much darker and less charitable interpretations, as I’ve alluded.

But what it does tell us as writers is that even villains --- perhaps especially villains, or at least detestable protagonists needing redemption --- can have and do have a need for connection and community, regardless of how or whether they express that need. And that characters close to them can recognize that need and voluntarily choose to remain with them, working towards redemption.

So, in that context, perhaps we ought to be praising Max, not scratching our heads over his behaviour.

St. Max, patron saint of the downtrodden and the marginalized?

Maybe.

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D.R. RANSHAW

2 Degree or Not 2 Degree

Can We Spare A Little Change?

So, What's With Max, Anyway?

D.R. Ranshaw's Blog

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