Scenes From a Fantasy

This will probably sound unpardonably obvious and not particularly profound, but it has occurred to me lately just how much fiction is truly a remarkable thing.

Whether it be a novel, a film, or even a music album, fiction can carry us away to far-off worlds, forgotten times, or impossible lives. It can give us experiences we’ll never know in the real world, make us feel things we’ve never felt, say things we’ve never said, do things we’ve never done.

I know, I know. Obvious post is obvious. Well, I’m going to write it all out anyway. I’m an anarchist: I do what I want(*).

(*) Without harming or violating the rights of others, of course. That’s the beauty of all this: You’re welcome to click off at any time. As for me, I’m just going to keep right on going.

Let’s continue, shall we?

As a writer, delving into fiction allows for a truly incredible experience, because I can fantasize my way into 19th-century Britain (The Lethean), or a dystopian future (Hale and Farewell), or even into a completely made-up fantasy world full of magic and technology and war and adventure (as I’m developing for the next series).

I can step outside my rather plain, routine life and immerse myself in an entirely different world. I can get away from the things I do every day and imagine something different.

In fiction, I don’t have to tell customers, at least twenty times a day, that “a smog inspection on a vehicle, provided it passes the test, is $45, and that includes the certificate fee”. I’ve recited that line so many times over the last fifteen years that it just simply comes out by rote. I don’t even have to think about it. At this point, I could probably explain, in detail, everything you’d ever want to know about check engine light diagnostics, readiness monitors, drive cycles, and the ever-changing California emissions program — in my sleep.

Not very fantastic, that.

In fiction, I can do something other than my daily routine: get up at 5:30 in the morning, stumble around in the dark to reach the kitchen, make breakfast, try to peck out a few hundred words while I eat, get dressed, ride to work with Dad, sit at my desk for ten hours straight, answer the phones (“Good afternoon, Lyons Auto Repair”…how many more times must I say this today? I sound like a bloody robot), speed through the most complicated work orders written in the most convoluted handwriting imaginable (I think automotive technicians could give doctors a run for their money when it comes to technical jargon in bad handwriting), scarf down lunch and sneak bathroom breaks in the few moments when the office is quiet, carry batteries and cases of antifreeze out to the shop (rawr!), ride back home, run through a workout (today is leg day — ugh), shower, eat, read a book (on the miniscule chance you’re at all interested, you can track my ever-growing library on Goodreads; I’m currently on Jeffrey Tucker’s Liberty.me: Freedom Is a Do-It-Yourself Project), go to bed. Get up the next morning, rinse and repeat. Six days a week. Every week. Same routine. And household chores on Sunday. Oh joy.

Once again, I find myself in one of my characters, for the hero of the next book lives an extremely routine and regulated life. That is, until he makes one simple choice that changes his routine, and consequently meets a strange woman who completely shakes up his world and makes him rethink everything he’s been taught all his life. As for me, I’m not yet brave enough to make that simple choice even when it presents itself. For now, the routine job stays. C’est la vie.

In the blessed world of fiction, I can say all the things I’d never be able to say to anyone in person. For instance, as I sit here in pain, I’d love nothing more than to shout curses at every god known to man about a particular cyclical aspect of having been born female, but as such commentary would be highly inappropriate for the workplace, I must keep such things to myself. Or, I’d love to scream at several people throughout the day how blind they are to the atrocities of our tyrannical government, but again, inappropriate for the workplace. But, ah! I can put all those unspoken words into the mouths of my characters. Huzzah!

I can go places I’ll never see in the real world. I would dearly love to see London someday, but as I’m not a drinker and it would require quite a lot of alcohol to get me on a plane for such duration, I’m not yet convinced such a trip will ever actually occur.

I can do things I know for a fact I’d never be brave enough, or crazy enough, to do. I can’t see myself in a fight, but I can write about Hale crossing blades with Marcus in Hale and Farewell. I can’t imagine myself sailing around the world, but I can write about Selene’s adventures on a ship as she tries to escape her past.

Good lord, I’m getting ahead of myself. Selene’s story will come in Book 9 in the next series, and I haven’t even put out Book 1 yet. (I may be just a tad too excited about the next series. Anyway…)

The same goes for times when I’m enjoying the work of others rather than writing myself.

Sometimes you just want an escape.

It is the reason we flock to libraries and music stores and movie theaters. It’s the reason we idolize famous authors, lead singers, and movie actors. We want to experience things that will never happen to us, be part of something bigger than ourselves, or even just have our realities reaffirmed, and these are the media and the people that bring us those experiences.

And since I’ll never be an actor, I can do all this just by simply sitting at my computer and letting my imagination run wild. There, acting: another experience I’ll never have, but I can certainly write about (and will, in Book 5). The extent of my acting skills are limited to pretending to still be happy and outgoing at the end of the workday while my inner introvert is screaming, “Danger! Danger! Run away! Too much human interaction! Critical shutdown of all systems if quiet is not achieved in 3…2…1…”

Speaking of acting, I found the following particularly applicable to the topic at hand:

“The best thing about acting is being allowed to explore the truth of experiences I’ve never had and feelings that are not my own. Playing different characters in different fictions and different worlds is like travelling to foreign countries: (to borrow L. P. Hartley’s phrase from The Go-Between) “The past is a foreign country, they do things differently there”. To me, a character is like a foreign country. Characters I play may do things differently from me, may feel differently, may react differently in different situations, but they are no more or less human. Acting is the exploration of universal truths – birth, death, love, loss, joy, grief, pride, vanity, hope, compassion, family, friendship, triumph, and disaster – but wearing different faces. That, as I see it, is my job.” — Tom Hiddleston

Oh dear. Two posts in a row in which I mention Mr. Hiddleston. I may be fan-girling just a wee bit.

Anyway, where was I?

Ah, yes. Escapism.

I fully embrace the idea of fiction as an escape. Although I agree with Ayn Rand‘s sentiment that, “You can avoid reality, but you cannot avoid the consequences of avoiding reality”, sometimes it’s simply necessary to step back, shut the doors on the world, and disappear into something different, allowing yourself time to push your problems aside, clear your head, and regain the strength to attack whatever is haunting you.

I remember doing this quite desperately when I was going through the raw, painful, rollercoaster healing process after I finally admitted to myself the reality of having been raped. I found myself escaping from reality into the little fantasies of my mind, just to get me through the day. I could disappear inside a book or a movie and pretend, for a few moments, that the painful memories did not exist, and when that didn’t work, I could fantasize a different reality of my own.

Thus, the White Knight stage I went through, in which I sat down and started writing my first book. There was no intention to actually write a book at the time. It simply happened that way. My very sanity required the existence of a man who was kind, gentle, and protective in order to counter the memories of a man who was abusive, cruel, and controlling. And my imagination came through, and a book came along with it.

Now, the book was utter rubbish. Completely unrealistic. Horrid writing. But it served its purpose.

And it helped me realize that there is in fact something in life that I truly want to do. Up until that point, I had no passions. No desires. But stumbling upon writing, I found something that I absolutely love, and now I just can’t stop.

Nor do I want to. Though the writing process can be frustrating at times, and there are days when I’m convinced I’ll never get a book finished, I can’t imagine my life without my stories. I can take a bit of daydream or a fantasy and think, “You know, that would make for a great scene in a story. Let’s see what I can make of it.”

As for other writing, I occasionally attempt a fun little opinion article or two (I’m still horribly overdue for another Confessions of an Anarchist post; I think it’ll be on getting an illegal hair cut, if I ever get around to it), but I no longer have the drive to write scholarly essays like I enjoyed doing in college. I have serious doubts that I could ever pen a screenplay. I did try my hand at poetry for a time, but I seem to have lost the desire for that as well.

Granted, all of my poetry came out of the pain of my healing process, so it’s probably not such a bad thing that I’m not inspired to write poetry anymore, although I do look back fondly on this one in particular:

Oh goodness, there’s Mr. Hiddleston again. Case for fan-girling intensifies.

What? Don’t tell me you wouldn’t swoon to hear those words recited in his voice. I know it doesn’t hold a candle to Shakespeare but, gods above, I know my head would be turned.

(That’s his hand, by the way. Doesn’t he just have the loveliest hands?)

Fun fact: When I was healing, it was almost impossible for me to look someone in the eye. It was simply too intimidating to accept the fact that someone could see me, when all I wanted to do was constantly hide in shadow and not be seen at all. Very well, perhaps a not-so-fun fact. Call it a bittersweet fact. Maybe even a boring fact. Anyway, the consequence of this is that, since I still had to deal with people in my customer service job, I became very focused on people’s hands as I handed invoices and receipts across the counter. It got to the point that I developed first impressions of people based on their hands instead of their faces. My own little personal brand of physiognomy, if you will.

Now, where was I?

What’s that? You’re stuck on the word physiognomy? Shame on you. Shame all over you. Please go read the complete works of Jane Austen and Charles Dickens and then get back to me for your next list of books to read. Go on. Right now. Go. I’ll wait.

*brews a pot of Earl Grey, thumbs through a book, looks up*

Still here, are you? Oh, very well. Shall we continue?

It is even in music that we can find a fictional escape. (I sincerely hope I threw you with that one when I mentioned it early on in this post. If not, I’m ashamed that this has all been more dreadfully obvious than I first assumed. However, pressing on…)

I’m not talking about the tuneless garbage that passes for music these days. I actively avoid radio because it seems like every other song is nothing but “Yeah yeah yeah, let’s go party”. That’s not music. That’s mindlessness.

I’m talking about music that makes you feel something. Music that tells a story. Despite my undying love for Hanson (their music did contribute greatly to my survival on my darkest days, after all), I would have to say that my favorite album of all time is Dream Theater’s Metropolis Pt. 2: Scenes From a Memory.

Why? Because it tells a bloody story. It’s an entire play, in musical form. It’s absolutely, positively genius.

I listen to that album and I can picture the whole thing as a stage show: choreography, characters, costumes. The story comes to life just through the medium of sound. I can experience the love affair, the murder, the guilt, the death — all just by sitting back on my couch and pressing play.

Well, more likely by blasting it in my car and singing along as I drive through town. That’s my one bit of unreserved behavior.

Perhaps I get too excited about this album. I’m always trying to get people to listen to it because I find the concept completely fascinating. It is by far the most creative album I’ve ever encountered. It may even not be unique, since my musical experience is rather limited, but the first time someone turned me on to that album, I was utterly and completely hooked. So yes, go! Go listen to it. It’s fabulous.

(Hmmm, I may be attempting to channel Jeffrey Tucker here. The bowtie-wearing gentleman anarchist can make just about any discussion of any topic sound as exciting as being a kid in a toy store. The man is just such a bloody optimist. It’s astounding.)

It is also because of this album that I simply had to have a character named Victoria. If I may direct your attention to the lyrics of the first track, “Scene One: Regression”:

Safe in the light that surrounds me

Free of the fear and the pain

My subconscious mind

Starts spinning through time

To rejoin the past once again

Nothing seems real

I`m starting to feel

Lost in the haze of a dream

And as I draw near

The scene becomes clear

Like watching my life on a screen

Hello Victoria so glad to see you

My friend

Now, although this is from the perspective of a man looking back on a past life, it was very easy for me to see all sorts of metaphors for my own experiences in these words. Safe in the light of the fantasies that held my memories at bay, thus keeping me free of the fear and the pain while I mentally went back in time and rejoined the past as I tried to overcome my nightmares. At times it felt that nothing seems real and that I was lost in the haze, and as the memories became less frightening, it was like impassively watching my life on a screen rather than living that fear all over again. And then, I could mentally slip into my little fantasy world, pick a character, and be happy, feeling as though I was so glad to see them, my characters, my friends. Victoria was one of the first, and I’ve got dozens more where she came from.

So, there you have it. An unpardonably obvious post, yet I wrote it all out anyway. What can I say? Loki made me–

Blast it all, there I go again…