Writing about escapism, I asked in a roundabout way how we might escape in fantasy, when the fantastic is the accepted structural norm. When fantasy is no longer an escape in and of itself, but a paltry reflection of ideology, what then is the route of escape from what is purportedly already an escape?
Well, psychoanalysis has a response—and it deals with the fantasy under which we live, not those we write.*
I want to continue this exploration of genre and how it functions as both a flavour of writing, and as a structural concept that informs both the subject of a piece of work or writing, and how it creates boundaries for that—what do those boundaries mean, and how do they inform us about the ideologies under which the writer strains? I’m exploring this not because I have a grand idea to organise these thoughts, but to help in finding one.
Generalising excessively, we can think about three broad genres of literature that are often considered to have at least some connection: fantasy, science-fiction, and horror. Of course, like so many other aspects, these bleed into one another, the boundaries are blurred, etc., but at their most basic, every reader has some broad concept of them as distinct. We can think of them as proto-genre. Each has become, in a way, a caricature, a defining structural characteristic, rather than an adjective that describes an event, or a theme, or an intrusion.
Each to some degree functions as a form of escapism—and also as a set of boundaries. But I think the most curious, and somehow defining, aspect is how they create escape by pushing against boundaries. Horror confronts fears, sci-fi seeks utopias (of course, I generalise), but fantasy is a more pure escapism, by virtue of creating a new set of boundaries.
Why? What do we need escaping from? Those are the questions that fantasy as a genre should probe. It is the safe dream that can drift away on gossamer threads on waking. Read the rest of this entry »
Fantasy, or the fantastic, can be read as a projection of our ideals, of our dreamlike ideologies. If we focus on fantasy literature, it raises interesting notions about why so often that limitless creative space (limitless by its very nature, the fantastic) is so often constrained by tolkienesque, mediaeval derivative settings.
Is it simply that we have romanticised that setting, or that time period? Is that a limitation of our dreaming? I would contend it is revealing of limitations we impose upon ourselves.
We often talk about fantasy in some ways reflecting the world we live in (let’s call it the real world, for simplicity) – and that notion of reflection, of mirroring, is crucial. It is interesting then to consider what values are reflected in the creation of a setting, or a culture, or a storyline, that are not done consciously. We must necessarily, and subconsciously, write in our own prejudices, our own judgments about the world’s limitations. Rather than simply treating fantasy as that mirror on the real world, it should be treated as a lens. In this way, we can better appreciate the limitations, our own prevailing ideologies that we unknowingly include. And by doing that, we can push back against them, as part of the very act of writing. Is that not a special power of any art?
But this must be a reflexive process: in writing, we consider the values and limitations we create and imply, and work through them not as the point of the writing, but as part of the act of writing. This self-criticism should be an ongoing and necessary part of the act of writing. So breaking the stereotypes and cliches, and considering our own ideologies in writing becomes not the end goal of the work, but something integral, freeing up the end goal, wiping the smudges from the lens.
In all spheres of human endeavour (especially creative), we should constantly try and break those boundaries we unknowingly impose, else we merely echo history and hegemony. But first we must recognise them, examine them, find their weaknesses (and their strengths). Again, I contend that fantasy provides an ideal setting in which to explore this process and carry it out.
If we don’t question our beliefs, they become self-reinforcing. They become assumptions – cliché and trope work this way. So if we don’t question why fantasy is enamoured of certain settings, we come to assume that they are a defining aspect of it.
As I have discussed previously, fantasy/the fantastic is a ripe field/genre for exploring our world and our assumptions, because it is a direct link (perhaps the most direct) to understanding our ideology. Like Freud thought dream was to conscious behaviour. This is not endorsement of the popular overgeneralisaton of Freud’s views, rather a recognition that in this convalescence between writing (the most direct form of self/auto-communication), and fantasy/genre (the most symbolically potent form of the art) we have a safe space to explore, we are not censored by ideology (rather, we are, but we can work through and around it by writing it in), just like dreams are seen as a safe space for the mind to explore emotions and actions and conceptions and fantasies that (more) conscious waking minds inhibit.
It is not that sex and death are the primal, underlying forces that drive all else, but that they are the most emotionally potent (the most intensely conditionable and the most primally feared); it is not that mediaeval settings are the most romantic and desired, but that these are the most able to directly solve the subconscious censor of our ideology, or so we think. The setting is also somewhat recognisable, relatable, and it echoes prevailing mythologies – of heroes and kings, and such. And while this creates great possibility, I feel it is also a dangerous lure – like a goldfish in a bowl, that thinks it swims in the sea.
We must always resist what comes easily, for that tells us something about our assumptions.
So not only is the content a lens on our world, the building blocks of that world are a lens through the writer. It is imperative that the writer is aware of what he or she is writing through.
Pleased to announce the release of a new novella. It’s available now from your favourite electronic book retailers.
The small town of Veritas is under siege. Now the defences have fallen.
They thought they were safe. They thought the world wouldn’t find them. Now they hoped the world would remember them.
You can find the links to purchase at the usual suspects on the Books page.
People say that travel broadens the mind. For me, this is not just an expanding of horizons, of distances and numbers previously beyond awareness or comprehension; not merely of connection with ‘other’ social and cultural systems that bring about an awareness of other ways of thinking and ways of operating in the world; but of the possibility of immersion in those systems. Only immersion can beget understanding. By living the way an other lives for a time, to be challenged and fascinated by different boundaries and norms, forces you to confront your own operating assumptions, your wants and needs, relative fortunes, and supposed strangenesses. Therein lies the possibility of compassion. This is one of the romantic ideals of anthropology—to immerse and perhaps understand—and the inherent challenge of reflecting that back through familiar ways of understanding and viewing the world.
For me, the broadening occurs through the valuing of time. Time to think and reflect. And that immersion and reflection gives space, broadens the breathing space in the mind, to consider ideas and make connections.
Last time I travelled I had an idea, and over the course of a week or two, with space to reflect, that idea grew, and the story has now come to fruition. The time, freedom, and the state of mind allowed that idea to burgeon and find new connections, in ways that life at home doesn’t often allow.
Travel doesn’t broaden the mind—society and culture restrict the mind, and we should take whatever chance we get to loosen those restrictions, and to let thought branch and wander wherever it will.
Here’s another excerpt from War in Arbin – Release date is March 5th
Maybe there was no such thing as luck. We can pray and beseech, take the same route to the market every fourth day of the new moon, stroke the head or phallus of some granite figurine—maybe it all meant nothing. Seemed like when the dice fell your way a few times it’s easy enough to put it down to skill or just desserts; but it’s when they’re falling the wrong way that luck seems real to me.
Maybe if you take it seriously enough you can turn your back when things are looking ill, crawl back into bed and wait out the day. Except when there’s a job to be done.
So were the dark directions of my thoughts as I gazed on the still-lit shutters’ edges. Two problems with the picture: the light, and the shutters.
Read the rest of this entry »