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D.R. Ranshaw

D.R. RANSHAW

Knox and Chris

6/25/2018

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You know, I often wonder how things worked out (or didn’t) between Knox and Chris. Don’t you?
 
They really made such a sweet, clean-cut, wholesome couple. And their romance sprang from an unlikely beginning: it was a classic underdog tale, one most of us can’t resist. So… did they wind up getting married, do you think? Having kids? Fulfilling careers? A long, happy life together? Or did their dreams founder on the rocky shores of unpleasant reality? As Orson Welles said, happy endings depend on where you stop your story.
 
Let me back up a little so you can make sense of my opening thought/question (and then we can eventually get to today’s primary thesis). Knox Overstreet and Chris Noel were two supporting characters in the 1989 film Dead Poets’ Society, whose major star power was Robin Williams portraying John Keating, a brilliant if rather unorthodox (for the time, anyway) teacher at a tony private New England boys’ prep school in 1959.
 
The film’s major theme deals with how Keating’s unorthodoxy affects his pupils --- he encourages them to think for themselves, often outside the box, rather than merely go with rote learning and the unconditional obedience to authority so prevalent in 1959 (in all society, not just education, come to that). As one might expect, there are mixed results to his philosophy, some good, some not so good, one in particular catastrophically tragic, as a student can’t cope with conflicting imperatives and commits suicide. I happen to think it’s a terrific film overall (and am inordinately pleased with myself when students sometimes address me as ‘O Captain, my Captain’ after I show it in class).
 
Knox is one of Keating’s students. His story arc is not nearly as starkly dramatic as some of the other boys, but it does deal with an issue most of us can really relate to: at a social event he’s otherwise been dreading, he meets Chris Noel, an attractive, bright, bubbly teenage girl. And unsurprisingly, he’s instantly smitten with her. Problem is, of course, she already has a boyfriend --- one of the head jocks at her high school. And he’s the jealous, possessive type whose answer to any problem appears to be aggression and/or physical violence. Right. Of course. (This issue was a constant thorn in my side when I was in high school too, lo, many eons ago. But --- sigh --- some things never seem to change. Why do otherwise intelligent girls perennially appear to go for witless jocks and bad boys? Is it some kind of weird maternal instinct or something? It used to drive me crazy. My friends, too. Nowadays, it drives my students crazy.)
 
Now, in the normal course of events, Knox --- a pretty meek, mild-mannered Clark Kent type without the convenient Superman costume under his clothes --- would pine for Chris a short time before moving on (or long time, perhaps --- my first unrequited crush lasted more than five years). But Keating’s biggest philosophical lynchpin is carpe diem (Latin for ‘seize the day’) and like others in the class, Knox is swept up by this world-changing paradigm. Despite dismal prospects for success (and her boyfriend, who has all the charm and intelligence of the Incredible Hulk), Knox decides to go for Chris.
 
And --- against all odds --- it works out!
 
Well… I should probably clarify that: we think it works out. Eventually, late in the film, they have a first date which I’d say goes pretty well. Okay, extremely well --- and suddenly, those dismal prospects are burnin’ brightly indeed.
 
Unfortunately for their story, very shortly after that lovely moment in the narrative, things take an unexpectedly dark turn, and for pretty much the remainder of the film, we focus on the student who kills himself, and the terrible aftermath of that event.
 
So that leads me back to my musing at the beginning of today’s epistle: how did things work out for Knox and Chris? It would make a really interesting story on its own… and to that ties another thought I was originally given by my social media guru.
 
When last we met, she told me I should be doing short stories in addition to working on the sequel to Gryphon’s Heir, my first novel. It would Spark Additional Reader Interest, she explained patiently. Which Is A Good Thing. I went away from that meeting a little dubious, on two counts: wouldn’t writing short stories take away from already scarce time to be working on the sequel? And --- more importantly --- where the hell was I going to come up with ideas for short stories related to the novel?
 
At that point, the Muse leaned over and affectionately smacked me upside the head, in that endearingly cruel way of hers, bless her black little heart, and made me think of Knox and Chris. It’s as though she was saying, “Listen, dummy. Interesting side plots just begging to be made into stories, long or short, are littered throughout any good narrative, like windfall fruit in an orchard. You really don’t have to look very hard. It ain’t rocket science.” And when my eyes had stopped watering, I decided that, as usual, she’s right: Knox and Chris’ journey would make a great little tale all on its own, regardless of how it turns out. So since then, I’ve found several examples in Gryphon’s Heir (and its currently unfinished sequel Gryphon’s Awakening) of characters and situations that would also lend themselves beautifully to little side excursions.
 
Now I just need to find the time to pick up a juicy apple or two and crunch them into stories.
 
Piece of cake.
 
Well, fruit. Story. Whatever. I’ll keep you posted.

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The Power o' Words

6/11/2018

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Among numerous other things in my life, I count myself a writer (admittedly, a fairly large part of my self-image). So I paint pictures with words, or at least I like to think I do. I take my verbal palette firmly in one hand, figurative brush in the other, regard my blank canvas --- 99% of the time, a computer screen, although it’s still blank --- and do my damndest to craft something that can transport a reader away from their drab daily life and into some vibrant other.
 
(What do I use the other 1% of the time, the sharp-eyed and inquisitive ask? Why, pen and paper, of course, because there are times I don’t have access to my trusty Dell Inspiron 15 --- or according to She Who Must Be Obeyed, it’s politically incorrect to haul it out and use it. And while I’m old enough to remember writing university papers on my mother’s old manual typewriter --- which all these years later remains squirreled away down in the basement storage room [the typewriter, that is, not my mother] --- contrary to my students’ fevered images, I’m not ancient enough to have ever used a quill pen. In fact, the only writer I’ve ever heard of who actually did was Lord Dunsany, the 19th century fantasy author.)
 
Writing prose that is vivid without being overwrought is an increasingly necessary skill these days, I find, especially as an educator. We --- or rather, some nebulous they, because I’m sure as hell not taking any responsibility for this fiasco, having done my level best as both career teacher and parent over more than three decades to swim against that particular current --- have created a generation of children who are largely so used to having the mediums of television and film and gaming consoles and computers provide Compleat Visual Tapestries That Requireth No Imagination Whatsoever to the extent that, put words on a page before them --- even on a tablet, come to that ---  most have absolutely no inclination to devour, or even nibble, this literary wordfeast. They just want to watch. They want it all done for them.
 
(Not all of them, as we swiftly move to placate the more erudite of my students, already beginning to wind up their cherubic voices in a wailing chorus of complaint, bless their black little hearts. Never say never, as the pundits tell us.)
 
So let me show you what it’s like to paint a picture with words from an image that really struck me. It’s from an Xbox title: Life is Strange: Before the Storm, a game I actually talked about in my last post. (I don’t often use the same source material in consecutive posts, but hey, any given day, you take whatever bone the Muse tosses at you. With gratitude. And you certainly don’t complain to her... ‘cause she’s apt to be a wee bit fickle that way, you know. Don’t tell her I said that. Please.)
 
The image that made such an impression on me is one, I think, Those Of Us Of A Certain Age can recall very well. (I don’t know about today’s kids. Are they outside? In the gloaming? Playing? Or at least making wondrous and enduring memories? The reader must decide.) Anyway, it certainly took me instantly back fifty years or so (yikes!) Here it is:
 
The small coastal community of Arcadia Bay, Oregon on a warm, humid, cloudless summer evening. A special time of day --- August, most likely, for it is that singular time of year when, even after the sun, a great, flaming molten ball, has disappeared against the western horizon, the soft twilight of the gloaming seems to linger for hours. As the light slowly fades at last and the sky turns azure, the old liquid sodium streetlights flicker on, creating pools of slowly strengthening, stark, brilliant white light along the quiet residential street. The moths caught in this strange, artificially unnatural light drift in lazy, confused circles beneath the lamps, fearing it even as they seem to dread to leave its embrace.
 
There is a calmness not found in a busy city. Very little traffic, and the noise of what there is, muted by distance into a somnolent buzz. Rather, it is the sound of crickets that pervades the night air. Houses sit placidly like silent sentinels, warm light glowing from windows whose curtains have not yet been shut against the oncoming of night.
 
A child’s bike and a soccer ball lie astride the sidewalk, abruptly abandoned by their owners, perhaps when the siren call of dinner came… or later, when the more demanding summons from a mother gathering her chicks back into the nest sounded up and down the street. Now the toys wait mutely for the morrow, when they will be picked up again and play resumed as though no interval of time had passed.
 
Long, pale shadows lengthen, then shorten as two teenage girls move from island to island of light. They are talking and laughing softly as they recount the evening’s earlier adventures: they have just performed in an outdoor play --- a summer production of Shakespeare’s The Tempest --- and it has been a glorious success. All the more so for one, who was a reluctant last-minute emergency replacement for a cast member unable to arrive by curtain time… but the impromptu stage debut went remarkably well, and the combined sense of blazing triumph, tempered by enormous relief, makes both girls a little giddy. One skips in circles, on and off the curb, then turns to the other, holding out her hands. The other accepts them, clasping tight, and they twirl in a dizzy circle together, laughing with the sheer joy of being alive.
 
Can you see it in your mind’s eye? I sure hope so. I’ve tried to faithfully recount a timeless moment combined from both a modern game and my own rose-coloured memories.
 
Ah, the power of words.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

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Life is Strangeish

6/4/2018

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I was thinking recently how it’s decidedly odd we humans constantly and deeply wish we could somehow know our futures… and yet, if we were to receive that knowledge, I seriously doubt it would wind up being all strawberries and cream. Far from it, in fact.
 
What would trigger this rather strange train of thought, you ask? Well, by way of answer, let me introduce you to the person who precipitated it.
 
Her name is Chloe Price, and unfortunately, her story is far from unique.
 
Chloe is sixteen years old and, despite the fact she’s a little rough around the edges --- well, okay, a lot rough around the edges, complete with a finely developed sense of angry, angsty rebelliousness some teenagers seem to excel at --- I really like her. Besides, unlike many of her compatriots, she actually has a good reason for the drama: you see, two years ago, the entire edifice of her world was destroyed when her father died in a car accident. That’s a tough blow even for a mature adult whose parent passes away, but for a kid, I think it’s especially devastating. Since then, her mother, Joyce, has done her level best to raise Chloe, but it’s been a difficult road for them both, especially since parents and teenagers frequently find it hard to communicate openly, honestly and compassionately with each other at the best of times. And this ain’t the best of times for either Chloe or Joyce. Not at all. And now Joyce has started dating a man whom Chloe loathes… well, let’s just say that doesn’t help matters.
 
She’s a real person, then? you ask. Well, yes and no. Chloe is the protagonist of an Xbox game entitled Life is Strange: Before the Storm, a sequel that’s actually a prequel to an earlier game called simply Life is Strange. And in case you’re wondering: no, she doesn’t have an easy life in the first game, either. In fact, playing that one as her friend Max (female), you literally have the power of life and death over Chloe… in fact, you have to make a pretty unenviable choice regarding Chloe: either you can save her from a monster storm… and the entire community of Arcadia Bay, where you both live, will be destroyed… or you can save the community… and Chloe dies. This after the entire game has been spent cementing and reinforcing the relationship between you and Chloe, at times in a fairly harrowing manner. Man, don’t you just hate it when life hands you a no-win scenario? (I wrote about this Life is Strange dilemma in an earlier post, which you can find here if you’re interested.)
 
In Before the Storm, Chloe develops what looks like, at first glance, an unlikely friendship with a girl named Rachel Amber. I say ‘unlikely’ because Rachel is, in many ways, the anti-Chloe: she’s popular, gets high grades, is the school’s drama production’s star actress, and most importantly, is unencumbered by the emotional baggage Chloe carries. But the two bond, in the way opposites sometimes do, and form a close connection. And it is this which led me to reflect on the undesirability of knowing our futures.
 
There are a number of touching moments in the story as the relationship between Chloe and Rachel deepens. One in particular occurs the night of the school play. Rachel is cast as a female Prospero in Shakespeare’s The Tempest, and Chloe has come to watch. But when, just prior to curtain, the show finds itself temporarily and unexpectedly without its Ariel --- a pretty important part --- guess whom Rachel gently strongarms into playing the role? Yep, Chloe --- who’s horrified at the prospect, but relents because she wants to support Rachel. Chloe’s not the type who desires to be onstage at all, and there’s a fair amount of adlibbing that goes on due to her unfamiliarity with the role… although it leads to an unscripted but heartfelt declaration of deep friendship from Rachel’s Prospero to Chloe’s Ariel that’s quite obviously meant to reflect what’s happening in their real-life relationship. It’s a lovely moment in the narrative. And very, very sad…
 
…because, you see, having played the original Life is Strange game last year… I already knew what happens to Rachel following Before the Storm. She dies. Worse, in fact: she’s murdered.
 
The entire, tender, burgeoning relationship between Chloe and Rachel is doomed, destined to be swept away in a searing wave of senseless violence before it’s barely even had a chance to take root. I played the entirety of Before the Storm knowing this, and knowing I was powerless to do anything to stop it. And I watched each moment, knowing it was all futile. It certainly gave a probably unintended sense of poignancy to the tale, but… you know, on reflection, I think I might have been happier without that knowledge. I guess it’s like some of the DNA tests that are available to us today: you can be tested for various ailments, some of them deadly… but we don’t have cures for those ailments just yet. Would you want to know? Or is it better to live in ignorant bliss of the possibility of impending doom?
 
I’ve never believed that ‘ignorance is bliss.’ But Before the Storm did give me cause to wonder if there are times when knowledge is not necessarily all it’s cracked up to be.
 
 
 
 

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    D.R. Ranshaw's Blog

    Author of The Annals of Arrinor series.  Lover of great literature, fine wine, and chocolate. Not necessarily in that order.

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