I blame Twitter. And Tolkien. Mostly in that order.
I should probably back up a little after such an obscure opening --- something I would’ve heavily discouraged my students from writing. But hey, here we are: I’m retired and they’re out there saving the world. Hope so, anyway.
Yesterday, a fellow Twit was moaning her daughter’s school still hadn’t released class lists for the upcoming year and how was she going to manage? She needed more than four days to prep her kid if said kid was having a different teacher and oh my goodness the world was falling apart. And then, of course --- because this was social media, he said, rolling his eyes --- all the usual trolls/hangers-on (real Twats) couldn’t resist trashing the arrogant, faceless indifference of teachers and the education system.
Now, anyone knowing me should/will be proud I limited my reply to a simple, neutral observation: it’s quite possible class lists are still in flux at this point --- because they likely are. I omitted saying the school may not have released class lists because they’re trying to limit the parental helicopters circling overhead with all kinds of contradictory requests which could make even someone with Solomon’s wisdom roll his eyes: could my kid pleeaase be with their best friend? Could my kid not be with their worst enemy? Could my kid have that teacher? Could my kid not have that teacher?
Now, as a retired career teacher, I can assure you we went to extraordinary lengths to create safe, positive learning environments, which included balancing classes by gender, personalities, and ability. (That last is particularly relevant to today’s epistle.) Too many boys in a class, and the testosterone soured the broth. Yikes. Too many shy or boisterous personalities could do likewise. And too many high or low academic abilities were also detrimental --- in fact, what you tried to do was reflect the bell curve. I suspect teachers still attempt that today, though God forbid they should admit something so politically incorrect. Because here’s the unvarnished, possibly unpalatable truth, folks: EVERY field of human endeavor reflects the bell curve. EVERY FIELD. At EVERY AGE. Whether you’re five, 15, 25, 45, 65… crap, it probably extends even unto death, too.
What is this notorious bell curve? Well, expressed as a graph, it says in any class --- or field of human endeavor --- at one end of the curve are a few people who fall flat; at the other, a few people who excel; and in the middle, a huge honkin’ multitude --- I privately call them the Great Unwashed --- who are… all right at what they do… not shining lights, but mostly competent to some degree. Average. (Another politically incorrect word nowadays.) And the graph of this curve is shaped like… wait for it… a bell.
(It’s kinda scary when you stop to think the bell curve also extends to professions dealing with life-or-death issues, like doctors… pilots… bureaucrats…)
So that’s my explanation for blaming Twitter. (Mind you, Twitter has a helluva lot else to answer for, too… though that’s another day’s topic.) But Tolkien?
Study that image by Pauline Baynes at the top of this post, Constant Reader, with the nine members of the fellowship of the Ring striding (no pun intended) towards their eventual goal of recycling a small piece of jewelry. They’re confident. Resolute. And as we read, we realize they’re all… really good at what they do. The hobbits are… well, hobbits, but their lack of combat abilities is more than compensated by the childlike wonder/innocence they exude at the world around them. Gandalf the wizard is a magical practitioner extraordinaire. Legolas the elf is an expert marksman with bow and arrow. (Sure, he has daddy issues, but that’s only in the bloated Peter Jackson Hobbit film trilogy, and therefore not canonical.) Gimli the dwarf likewise is dependable and a great team player. (I despised how Jackson made him the comic relief in the films.) And the two humans, Aragorn and Boromir… besides being terrific warriors, the first is a king-in-waiting, while the second is the noble son of a great house. (Yes, Boromir goes and tries to take the Ring, but that only makes him a tragic hero in the classic literary sense, a man of high estate possessed of a tragic flaw.) My point is, they’re all really, really good at what they do. Nary a sluggard nor an incompetent among them. Nobody wants to take the ring to the nearest pawn shop and ditch it, or sell it to the highest bidder. And, according to that old bell curve, that’s just a little too good to ring true. (Sorry. Well, not really.) So several generations of readers and writers have grown up believing character situations like the fellowship of the Ring are the rule, not the exception.
As writers, the temptation is always there to make characters so saccharinely perfect, they ‘shit marble,’ as Mozart disparagingly says in the film Amadeus while dismissing heroic figures. Often times, we vicariously want them to be the badass heroes we aren’t. But they can’t all float serenely at the high end of that damned curve. And it can’t just be villains or halfwits hanging out at the low end. (I used to tell my students it was no sin if they weren’t particularly great at English, because we all possess different gifts and abilities --- I was hopeless at high school math, for example --- and can’t be great at everything. Except, of course, that supremely annoying one or two people who smugly are. Though I suspect they too have foibles somewhere. Even heroes have feet of clay, more often than not. That’s the aforementioned tragic flaw.)
So when you’re writing, my advice is keep that ol’ bell curve in mind, and, if you want your story and characters to reflect the daily life journey we all share --- even if your tale is chock-full of dragons and elves and wizards, oh my --- make sure characters reflect that curve’s reality. I’m not arguing for mediocrity, but the simple, unvarnished truth is that most people are only okay at their jobs. A small elite are very, very good at them.
And very few, thankfully, are downright terrible.
I should probably back up a little after such an obscure opening --- something I would’ve heavily discouraged my students from writing. But hey, here we are: I’m retired and they’re out there saving the world. Hope so, anyway.
Yesterday, a fellow Twit was moaning her daughter’s school still hadn’t released class lists for the upcoming year and how was she going to manage? She needed more than four days to prep her kid if said kid was having a different teacher and oh my goodness the world was falling apart. And then, of course --- because this was social media, he said, rolling his eyes --- all the usual trolls/hangers-on (real Twats) couldn’t resist trashing the arrogant, faceless indifference of teachers and the education system.
Now, anyone knowing me should/will be proud I limited my reply to a simple, neutral observation: it’s quite possible class lists are still in flux at this point --- because they likely are. I omitted saying the school may not have released class lists because they’re trying to limit the parental helicopters circling overhead with all kinds of contradictory requests which could make even someone with Solomon’s wisdom roll his eyes: could my kid pleeaase be with their best friend? Could my kid not be with their worst enemy? Could my kid have that teacher? Could my kid not have that teacher?
Now, as a retired career teacher, I can assure you we went to extraordinary lengths to create safe, positive learning environments, which included balancing classes by gender, personalities, and ability. (That last is particularly relevant to today’s epistle.) Too many boys in a class, and the testosterone soured the broth. Yikes. Too many shy or boisterous personalities could do likewise. And too many high or low academic abilities were also detrimental --- in fact, what you tried to do was reflect the bell curve. I suspect teachers still attempt that today, though God forbid they should admit something so politically incorrect. Because here’s the unvarnished, possibly unpalatable truth, folks: EVERY field of human endeavor reflects the bell curve. EVERY FIELD. At EVERY AGE. Whether you’re five, 15, 25, 45, 65… crap, it probably extends even unto death, too.
What is this notorious bell curve? Well, expressed as a graph, it says in any class --- or field of human endeavor --- at one end of the curve are a few people who fall flat; at the other, a few people who excel; and in the middle, a huge honkin’ multitude --- I privately call them the Great Unwashed --- who are… all right at what they do… not shining lights, but mostly competent to some degree. Average. (Another politically incorrect word nowadays.) And the graph of this curve is shaped like… wait for it… a bell.
(It’s kinda scary when you stop to think the bell curve also extends to professions dealing with life-or-death issues, like doctors… pilots… bureaucrats…)
So that’s my explanation for blaming Twitter. (Mind you, Twitter has a helluva lot else to answer for, too… though that’s another day’s topic.) But Tolkien?
Study that image by Pauline Baynes at the top of this post, Constant Reader, with the nine members of the fellowship of the Ring striding (no pun intended) towards their eventual goal of recycling a small piece of jewelry. They’re confident. Resolute. And as we read, we realize they’re all… really good at what they do. The hobbits are… well, hobbits, but their lack of combat abilities is more than compensated by the childlike wonder/innocence they exude at the world around them. Gandalf the wizard is a magical practitioner extraordinaire. Legolas the elf is an expert marksman with bow and arrow. (Sure, he has daddy issues, but that’s only in the bloated Peter Jackson Hobbit film trilogy, and therefore not canonical.) Gimli the dwarf likewise is dependable and a great team player. (I despised how Jackson made him the comic relief in the films.) And the two humans, Aragorn and Boromir… besides being terrific warriors, the first is a king-in-waiting, while the second is the noble son of a great house. (Yes, Boromir goes and tries to take the Ring, but that only makes him a tragic hero in the classic literary sense, a man of high estate possessed of a tragic flaw.) My point is, they’re all really, really good at what they do. Nary a sluggard nor an incompetent among them. Nobody wants to take the ring to the nearest pawn shop and ditch it, or sell it to the highest bidder. And, according to that old bell curve, that’s just a little too good to ring true. (Sorry. Well, not really.) So several generations of readers and writers have grown up believing character situations like the fellowship of the Ring are the rule, not the exception.
As writers, the temptation is always there to make characters so saccharinely perfect, they ‘shit marble,’ as Mozart disparagingly says in the film Amadeus while dismissing heroic figures. Often times, we vicariously want them to be the badass heroes we aren’t. But they can’t all float serenely at the high end of that damned curve. And it can’t just be villains or halfwits hanging out at the low end. (I used to tell my students it was no sin if they weren’t particularly great at English, because we all possess different gifts and abilities --- I was hopeless at high school math, for example --- and can’t be great at everything. Except, of course, that supremely annoying one or two people who smugly are. Though I suspect they too have foibles somewhere. Even heroes have feet of clay, more often than not. That’s the aforementioned tragic flaw.)
So when you’re writing, my advice is keep that ol’ bell curve in mind, and, if you want your story and characters to reflect the daily life journey we all share --- even if your tale is chock-full of dragons and elves and wizards, oh my --- make sure characters reflect that curve’s reality. I’m not arguing for mediocrity, but the simple, unvarnished truth is that most people are only okay at their jobs. A small elite are very, very good at them.
And very few, thankfully, are downright terrible.
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