I’m kinda torn.
In my Twitterfeed (yes, you heard me, Twitter… not some idiotic random letter of the alphabet favoured by a certain narcissistic billionaire owner --- and calling him narcissistic is like saying the Pacific Ocean contains some water) I frequently post various writing memes, complete with my own captions I lightheartedly/naïvely believe are entertaining/droll. Some memes focus on sadistic habits writers often display regarding the trials and tribulations of their literary characters i.e. a predilection for making character lives so thoroughly and completely miserable, even the Marquis de Sade would blush with embarrassment. However, today, writing brothers and sisters, I come before you as an aggrieved reader/viewer, with a Serious Literary Complaint. (I realize the potential contradictory minefield I’m opening myself up to in penning this epistle, but we’ll see where it goes anyway. More on this later. Right now, like I said, I’m playing the part of Wounded Reader/Viewer, complete with plot spoilers from my chosen example. You’ve Been Warned.)
My wife and I like to end most days of our frenetic retired lives (he said with puckish tongue-in-cheek attitude) by watching an episode or two of various series on one of the many streaming platforms out there. (Like most, I suspect, we subscribe to far too many to really use any of them cost-effectively, but we’ll leave that little nugget of conspicuous consumption alone for now.) My tastes, given what I write, unsurprisingly tend to run to science fiction and fantasy, where dark, dystopian themes abound, while hers are mostly gentler, period dramas with good dollops of redemption. However, I’m quite amenable to watching ‘her’ shows --- most of the time, anyway, as long as they’re not too treacly, and in return, she’ll return the favour… as long as mine aren’t too dark. (She refused to watch Game of Thrones with me after the Red Wedding, for example, which was understandable.)
The series we’re currently watching is Grantchester, a British mystery-drama, based on novels by James Runcie. Set in early 1950s England, it focuses on the unlikely friendship between an amateur sleuth who just happens to be an Anglican priest in his day job, and a world-weary police inspector. They’re World War II veterans, and clearly suffer from PTSD as a result --- which, of course, wasn’t a diagnosis back then, so they wrestle with their collective demons as best they can… which, at times, isn’t very well at all. I suppose you’ve gotta love flawed protagonists --- I’m fully aware how boring perfect protagonists are --- but my gosh, these two sure take the flawed label and run with it at various moments. (I’m not a big fan of the catastrophically self-destructive protagonist… if I want to watch a train wreck in slow motion, there are plenty of grisly videos on YouTube, where the emotional commitment is much less, thanks very much.)
Now, our Anglican priest, Sydney Chambers, has had a love for one Amanda Hopkins (nee Kendall) for a long, long time --- it predates the series by a long stretch. Their relationship has been full of ‘almost’ and ‘not-quite’ and ‘what-if,’ but the plain unvarnished truth is, she’s a well-to-do heiress and upper-class type as only the British can do it, and he’s just an ex-soldier who became a lowly Anglican parish priest, so, as the English say, ‘it’s just not on’ that the two of them could ever marry, especially as far as her family is concerned. I’m not sure anyone besides Sydney is really surprised when Amanda winds up, at the behest of her crusty father, marrying a toffee-nosed upper-class twit who, it turns out, makes George Banks look warm and cuddly.
One would think this would be the end of Sydney and Amanda’s relationship. But… one would be wrong. Completely, utterly wrong. They keep bumping into each other… by accident and by design. It’s painfully obvious they still have feelings for each other, magnified by the fact Amanda is deeply unhappy in her marriage to a cold, distant husband --- who’s not above anger and jealousy over the fact his wife is still in touch with Sydney. Even Amanda’s eventual pregnancy doesn’t curb her feelings for Sydney… if anything it magnifies her misery and hopelessness of being trapped in a loveless marriage.
Eventually, at second season’s end, a very pregnant Amanda leaves her husband just prior to Christmas. She hangs out with a sympathetic aunt for a while, until her daddy, hard-nosed and callous even during the season of peace and goodwill, threatens to fire auntie’s husband, whom he just happens to employ. So a distraught Amanda trudges off through newly fallen snow into the darkness, winding up (unsurprisingly) at Sydney’s vicarage just in time to give birth. Unlike a certain other unmarried mother, there’s room at this inn, and the season ends with Sydney and Amanda framing a newborn baby, wondering how on earth their relationship is going to work. After all, she’s deserted her husband, divorces were waaay more difficult to obtain in 1950s England, and Anglican clergy weren’t permitted to marry divorcees. But true love will find a way… or so we’re led to believe.
Now, it’s at this point that I become the Wounded Viewer… though I have to make a rather horrendous confession in order to do so: you see… I looked ahead in our good friend Wikipedia’s episode summaries for Grantchester, because I didn’t want to wait to see how their relationship would resolve. (I know, I know. Mea culpa. Guess we all have feet of clay.) And… wait for it… Sydney and Amanda’s relationship… Doesn’t. Work. Out. (Warned ya.)
As a reader/viewer, I say… writers, don’t do this to us. It’s cheating! J’accuse! J’accuse you of leading us to believe that, like Westley and Buttercup, Things Would Work Out and True Love Would Prevail. And we hates it when gritty reality intervenes, precious, yessss we does.
Now, as a writer, I say… pfft. Deal with it. I never promised you they’d live happily ever after (which, as Orson Welles once adroitly pointed out, depends on where you want to stop your story).
So… yeah. Feeling a little torn about this, depending which literary hat I’m wearing.
But I’ll get over it.
In my Twitterfeed (yes, you heard me, Twitter… not some idiotic random letter of the alphabet favoured by a certain narcissistic billionaire owner --- and calling him narcissistic is like saying the Pacific Ocean contains some water) I frequently post various writing memes, complete with my own captions I lightheartedly/naïvely believe are entertaining/droll. Some memes focus on sadistic habits writers often display regarding the trials and tribulations of their literary characters i.e. a predilection for making character lives so thoroughly and completely miserable, even the Marquis de Sade would blush with embarrassment. However, today, writing brothers and sisters, I come before you as an aggrieved reader/viewer, with a Serious Literary Complaint. (I realize the potential contradictory minefield I’m opening myself up to in penning this epistle, but we’ll see where it goes anyway. More on this later. Right now, like I said, I’m playing the part of Wounded Reader/Viewer, complete with plot spoilers from my chosen example. You’ve Been Warned.)
My wife and I like to end most days of our frenetic retired lives (he said with puckish tongue-in-cheek attitude) by watching an episode or two of various series on one of the many streaming platforms out there. (Like most, I suspect, we subscribe to far too many to really use any of them cost-effectively, but we’ll leave that little nugget of conspicuous consumption alone for now.) My tastes, given what I write, unsurprisingly tend to run to science fiction and fantasy, where dark, dystopian themes abound, while hers are mostly gentler, period dramas with good dollops of redemption. However, I’m quite amenable to watching ‘her’ shows --- most of the time, anyway, as long as they’re not too treacly, and in return, she’ll return the favour… as long as mine aren’t too dark. (She refused to watch Game of Thrones with me after the Red Wedding, for example, which was understandable.)
The series we’re currently watching is Grantchester, a British mystery-drama, based on novels by James Runcie. Set in early 1950s England, it focuses on the unlikely friendship between an amateur sleuth who just happens to be an Anglican priest in his day job, and a world-weary police inspector. They’re World War II veterans, and clearly suffer from PTSD as a result --- which, of course, wasn’t a diagnosis back then, so they wrestle with their collective demons as best they can… which, at times, isn’t very well at all. I suppose you’ve gotta love flawed protagonists --- I’m fully aware how boring perfect protagonists are --- but my gosh, these two sure take the flawed label and run with it at various moments. (I’m not a big fan of the catastrophically self-destructive protagonist… if I want to watch a train wreck in slow motion, there are plenty of grisly videos on YouTube, where the emotional commitment is much less, thanks very much.)
Now, our Anglican priest, Sydney Chambers, has had a love for one Amanda Hopkins (nee Kendall) for a long, long time --- it predates the series by a long stretch. Their relationship has been full of ‘almost’ and ‘not-quite’ and ‘what-if,’ but the plain unvarnished truth is, she’s a well-to-do heiress and upper-class type as only the British can do it, and he’s just an ex-soldier who became a lowly Anglican parish priest, so, as the English say, ‘it’s just not on’ that the two of them could ever marry, especially as far as her family is concerned. I’m not sure anyone besides Sydney is really surprised when Amanda winds up, at the behest of her crusty father, marrying a toffee-nosed upper-class twit who, it turns out, makes George Banks look warm and cuddly.
One would think this would be the end of Sydney and Amanda’s relationship. But… one would be wrong. Completely, utterly wrong. They keep bumping into each other… by accident and by design. It’s painfully obvious they still have feelings for each other, magnified by the fact Amanda is deeply unhappy in her marriage to a cold, distant husband --- who’s not above anger and jealousy over the fact his wife is still in touch with Sydney. Even Amanda’s eventual pregnancy doesn’t curb her feelings for Sydney… if anything it magnifies her misery and hopelessness of being trapped in a loveless marriage.
Eventually, at second season’s end, a very pregnant Amanda leaves her husband just prior to Christmas. She hangs out with a sympathetic aunt for a while, until her daddy, hard-nosed and callous even during the season of peace and goodwill, threatens to fire auntie’s husband, whom he just happens to employ. So a distraught Amanda trudges off through newly fallen snow into the darkness, winding up (unsurprisingly) at Sydney’s vicarage just in time to give birth. Unlike a certain other unmarried mother, there’s room at this inn, and the season ends with Sydney and Amanda framing a newborn baby, wondering how on earth their relationship is going to work. After all, she’s deserted her husband, divorces were waaay more difficult to obtain in 1950s England, and Anglican clergy weren’t permitted to marry divorcees. But true love will find a way… or so we’re led to believe.
Now, it’s at this point that I become the Wounded Viewer… though I have to make a rather horrendous confession in order to do so: you see… I looked ahead in our good friend Wikipedia’s episode summaries for Grantchester, because I didn’t want to wait to see how their relationship would resolve. (I know, I know. Mea culpa. Guess we all have feet of clay.) And… wait for it… Sydney and Amanda’s relationship… Doesn’t. Work. Out. (Warned ya.)
As a reader/viewer, I say… writers, don’t do this to us. It’s cheating! J’accuse! J’accuse you of leading us to believe that, like Westley and Buttercup, Things Would Work Out and True Love Would Prevail. And we hates it when gritty reality intervenes, precious, yessss we does.
Now, as a writer, I say… pfft. Deal with it. I never promised you they’d live happily ever after (which, as Orson Welles once adroitly pointed out, depends on where you want to stop your story).
So… yeah. Feeling a little torn about this, depending which literary hat I’m wearing.
But I’ll get over it.
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