National Novel Writing Month

I don't know if anybody's aware of this, but it's almost November (I know, shocking, right?). Well, every November an event takes place that is only known of a certain community. That community is a strange, elusive, and frightening one: the literary community.

There are those in this community who call November National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo for short. Next month, thousands of adults all over the world will challenge themselves to write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days. There's also a Young Writers Program where the participant can set their word count goal. Both programs have a website where word counts can be tracked, chat sessions can unfold on forums, and other people can monitor a participant's progress and heckle them when they're falling behind.

Why November? Perhaps because the weather is turning colder and people are more likely to sit inside, and if they're stuck inside, they might as well be writing. Perhaps because writing provides a diversion, an encouraging distraction from the cold tragedy that is the dying year. Perhaps because in November comes the midnight of the soul, and everybody knows that the greatest works of composition come from tormented spirits.

Or maybe because "November" and "novel" start with the same four letters, so November seemed like the best fit for a novel-writing month.

Anyway, I'm participating this year. This will technically be my third year participating, although the first year I did it I didn't use the website and I ended up not finishing the thing I was writing or coming anywhere close to my word count objective. Last year participation was an assignment in a Composition class I was taking, so not only could all sorts of other people see how many words I had, my grade depended on completing it. My manuscript (which I completed) hit about 29,000 words (which was over my goal, since I use the Young Writers Program).

This year I'm homeschooling, so I'm afraid that I won't be motivated enough to finish, but I'm still on the website, which provides a fair amount of oomph. Also, my mother's participating this year too, so we're planning on sort of being each other's accountability partners. And if my best friend, Aloisa, who's still on the fence about participating this year, decides to, it'll provide even more motivation ((evil grin) no pressure, Loie).

That's about all I came to say. I refuse to share any secrets about my story, except that it involves a brave girl, her less brave friend, a horse whose name I haven't fully decided yet (which is kind of causing me panic because it's important), a road trip, a war, and a cameo by a slightly neurotic character who may or may not be based on me. Oh, and it sort of mentions a bird that looks something like this:

 
I might post an excerpt or two on here once I've got going, if any interest is expressed.

Creatively yours,
Pearl Clayton 

   

The Purpose of Fiction

When creating a blog, it is necessary to choose a name, something that will theoretically sum up the basic idea of the general content of the posts the blogger intends to make. When I started up this blog a month ago (speaking of which, YAY! Monthiversary blogpost!), "Everything Unreal" was the second name idea I came up with (the first being something along the lines of "Faerie Stories").

Why?

Well, because I love fiction. I love stories that aren't true and unrealistic or adapted editions of stories that are true. I planned on basing all my posts on fictional stories that I'd read or watched or written. And the reason I ultimately chose "Everything Unreal" over "Faerie Stories" is that I enjoy different types of fiction, from Sci-Fi to Historical to Mystery, not just fairy tales.

At least, that's what I thought when I started blogging.

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about the purpose of fiction, the reason that people write books and make movies, their motivation in telling the stories they tell in the way that they tell them. In fact, if you scroll down you'll see my last post, a piece about landscaping in which I pretend to be polite as I express my annoyance with a few modern taletellers. These thoughts about fiction's function in our society have been provoked and intensified by several different recent experiences, which I suppose I might as well outline below.

First of all, in my landscaping post I mentioned watching a silly movie and reading two of the works of Orson Scott Card. I feel like I don't really need to dwell on the movie anymore, except to drive home the point that I think all such films starring non-actors portraying non-characters and essentially lacking plot are inexpressibly annoying and have no purpose whatsoever, but I will write more about OSC. Yesterday the class for which I was reading Ender's Shadow met to discuss the book. It was a lengthy discussion covering many points, but one brief exchange particularly applies to this post. The teacher asked us students what we thought Orson Scott Card's feeling about Battle School is. Does he view his creation, the main setting of the book, as a positive institution or a negative one? We seemed to come to the consensus that he considered it to be a bad thing, at which time one of my classmates asked quietly, "Then why did he write the book?"

See, that's what I've been wondering since I started Ender's Game.

Later yesterday, my mother and I got into a brief conversation about R-rated movies. If I remember correctly, the conversation was brought on by my mention of an upcoming movie called 12 Years A Slave, which is apparently based on a true story about a free Northern black man who was kidnapped by Southerners in the early 1800s and forced to work as a slave for the next twelve years. I brought it up because I think it looks goodish and therefore have a vague interest in seeing it, but will be unable to because it's rated R.

Now, in the case of this film, the R rating is probably caused by excessive amounts of violence toward slaves, and quite possibly by scenes of a sexual nature as well (as in, um, rape-y sexual; some of those slave owners had some pretty severe issues). But seeing the rating on a trailer for it got me thinking about other movies, movies rated R thanks to frequent, completely unnecessary uses of questionable language or overly gory violence or sickeningly clothesless immorality; the very same movies that constantly seem to be winning Academy Awards and high IMDb ratings and critical acclaim. My mom said that frequently the winner of a Best Picture Oscar will win, not because it was really the best movie made that year, but because it was shocking or weird. So, is the purpose of fiction to shock and confuse us?

But the primary inspiration for my recent ponderings on fiction's calling is another book I've been reading, also for a school assignment. It is called 'Salem's Lot, penned by Stephen King. I finished it earlier today, and my relief in doing so was great.

The basic plot of the story is this: there's a small town in Maine called Jerusalem's Lot where almost every citizen is corrupted and nasty. They're all drunk, having affairs, killing small animals to relieve stress, spying on people through binoculars, abusing children, or just being unspeakably nasty because they can. One fine day, two creepy guys move into the creepy haunted house overlooking the town, and then people start dying. And then the bodies start disappearing. And in the end, it turns out that one of the creepy guys is a centuries-old vampire who has started turning the townsfolk. Then, by the end (spoiler alert) all the unpleasant people in town are rampaging vampires and the very few bearable people in town are dead. The only two survivors are the two characters obviously based on Stephen King (no, seriously; I'm surprised they weren't named Stephen and King).

So now I'm asking myself: what was the point? Was it supposed to be thoroughly entertaining? Well, I wasn't entertained. Were the readers supposed to be scared? Was it meant to jumpstart debates about..... stuff? Is it intended to teach some moral lesson like "Don't be as revolting as these people because otherwise the vamps will get you"? Was Stephen King trying to explain to the world that in the case of a vampire attack he would be the sole survivor?

Whatever the case, I don't even want to think about what Stephen King's landscaping contributions would look like.

I guess it's rather silly to question why fiction is created. Obviously, the creator always feels they have a story the world needs to hear. Even those who create things just for the money wouldn't create something they didn't think they should create (well, I'm only assuming that, but I prefer to think the best of people whenever possible).

I think the real question is not why people create fiction, but why people experience fiction. Why do people read Orson Scott Card and Stephen King and watch movies without plots or movies full of gratuitous everything? Who creates the demand? I know why I read and watch fiction; I seek to be entertained. I watch things and read things because I think I will feel happier and more fulfilled when I'm through with them. But I often feel like I'm in the minority on that point. It seems like a great many people choose what fiction they will familiarize themselves with and then come back to again and again and re-experience based on a desire to be scared or shocked or flummoxed or flabbergasted and yes, technically I'm just listing a bunch of synonyms but I wanted to showcase my impressive vocabulary.

I still love fiction. There are gobs of books and movies and TV shows and characters whose very names cause me to squeal and giggle childishly. Because for me, the purpose of fiction is to cause squeals and giggles of delight and to improve the mood and revitalize existence. To misquote Jane Austen, let other eyes dwell on guilt and misery, if that is what they desire. I'll be over here with my fairy tale books and superhero movies. Bye now.

~Pearl Clayton

PS. If this post was kind of garbled and silly, please don't hesitate to let me know in the comments. I was a bit out of it and rather emotionally compromised for most of its composition.  
 

  

Those Who Should Have Become Landscapers

Professional landscaping is truly a noble profession. Nay, it is more than that: it is an art form. Just imagine how it must feel to hold the future of someone's lawn in your hands. When a person or a company or some other client engages your services, you immediately know that the decisions you make as you design the area of land they give you will affect there professional appearance, their neighbors' opinions of them, and possibly even their own self-esteem for years to come.

A few nights ago, my mother and I watched a movie that was, in my opinion, very stupid. It had no real plot, nothing resembling a satisfying ending, a host of unnecessary scenes, and a few characters who spent most of the movie meandering around looking and behaving like the unfortunate victims of Dementors' kisses. People would ask them questions, and for long periods of time they would, rather than replying, pout listlessly at things as the audience (or at least, as I) was driven mad with boredom and irritation.

As I watched, I couldn't help thinking about the film's director and writer, and the author of the book the film was based on. What a tragedy it is, I thought, that this trio happened to become a director, a screenwriter, and an author, rather than three landscapers. During the long spaces in which absolutely nothing was happening onscreen, I filled the time imagining what their endeavors would look like when completed. The half-finished walkways, the abundance of colorless and odorless flowers, the feeling of dullness, indifference, and lack of interest that would surely permeate any area they had attempted to beautify..... truly they and the world have missed out on something glorious through their poor career choices.

It wasn't this film that first inspired landscaping-related thoughts to come into my mind, however. For school this year, I am reading the book Ender's Shadow by Orson Scott Card. To help me prepare, a few weeks ago I read Card's first literary infliction, Ender's Game. Now, I am well aware that there are many people who find great enjoyment in repeatedly perusing OSC's Ender books; but I find that all throughout reading Game and now starting Shadow, I've been unable to help thinking what a great landscaper Orson Scott Card could have made.

Really, it's almost heartbreaking to think about the sheer fulfillment he could've brought to his life and the lives of his clients. Rather than creating characters so foul and repulsive I wish they would all just die in agony, he could've been strategically arranging flower beds until they were perfectly suited to the task of garnering hate-filled glances and wrenching sobs from all who were forced to view them. He could have channeled his clear hatred for humanity through healthier outlets than writing, such as crooked fountains and asymmetrical pathways. Rather than placing ugly, jagged words in unpleasant sentences, he could have been laying ugly, jagged stones in upsetting, zigzagged lines. Oh, how much this poor world lost on the day Orson Scott Card chose to become a writer!

Of course, I'm not saying that everyone should go into landscaping. Some people are genuinely better suited to other art forms. But to those who do landscape, who bring beauty to the world and joy to themselves using flora and stone, I say, I salute you!

-Pearl Clayton

Forgetfulness, Nostalgia, and The Wretched Ones

"There isn't really anyone left to take pictures with at the end of Les Miserables," said the man who directed and produced the show. Well, that or something to that effect. It was Friday night, at a little dinner theater in Fort Collins. No one told me where my dad was taking me beforehand. I'd had a few guesses, but only in my wildest dreams did I imagine I'd be getting to see a live performance of Les Mis for the first time ever. Before Friday, I'd only ever heard soundtrack versions or seen concert performances.

"Dinner and theater are two words that, when put together, mean that neither will be very good," Dad said, quoting some comedian or other modern philosopher whose name he couldn't recall. This night proved him wrong. The food was delicious, and the performance was..... indescribable. I'll venture to say that it had the best Enjolras, the best Eponine, the best Little Fall of Rain, and the best Valjean (except for Colm Wilkinson, but I think it's unfair to compare other Valjeans to him because they would always come up lacking) I've ever seen/heard. And it was wonderful to finally see it staged and acted and everything. I couldn't be happier.

But, at the same time..... it hurts just a little knowing that I'll never see that particular performance again. I can't recreate the way their voices sounded in my head. I don't want to forget the lighting and the echoes and the spotlights and the high notes and harmonies, but I know I will. It is the inescapable and tragic fate of human frailty that, eventually, all things will slip away from our memories and leave us grasping desperately at pockets of mental history that emptied when we were looking the other way. And those things we only witnessed once, with no chance to drill them into our minds and force them to stay with us, will likely be the first to go. That's why I've been dragging myself mentally back to Friday night at every opportunity I get all weekend. I don't want to lose it. Ever.

It makes me think of a quote from a great book I'm reading. In his final moments, a dying man sees something that makes him remember an incident from his long-passed childhood. "I told myself I would remember it forever," he says, "but time goes on and the world fills up with things to remember, things to do, calls on your time, calls on your memory. And you forget the things that were important, the real things."

Today my mom and I went to the library we frequented when I was younger, and through something I said and her energetic disposition we ended up in the children's section looking at movies she used to check out for me. It's such a strange feeling, being in that children's library, remembering how much I loved to paw through the stacks until I found a book or five that looked appealing, remembering watching those videos, but no longer remembering much of any of the stories they told.

I'm probably decades too young to be fretting about losing memories, but I think I've always been that way, loath to give things up. I want to take all the things that are important, the real things, from Peter Rabbit videos to tragic French epics and everywhere in between, and bundle them up and protect them from age and maturity and the passing years. But I know I can't. And so now the fight becomes resigning myself to losses, learning to treasure the real things while they last and learning to relinquish them when their time has passed.

But that's a struggle for a different day.....

~Pearl Clayton     

Dear Timothy Dalton,

I am most seriously displeased with you.

Oh, what, you want me to explain why? Well, aren't you persnickety.

Well then fine. I'll explain why I'm displeased. But first, a little backstory.

Some years ago, I don't know how many exactly, I watched the 1997 TV movie Jane Eyre starring Samantha Morton and Ciaran Hinds. I didn't like it. At all. Later, I watched the newest version of the story, starring Mia Wasikowska and Michael Fassbender. I didn't like that one either (to be perfectly honest, I barely remember anything about that one). Then I read the book. Then I watched the 1997 version again, and I disliked the story more than ever, for one simple reason: in every single one of these versions, book included, I hated Mr. Rochester, felt that he didn't truly love Jane, and therefore found it very easy to deem his offenses against her unforgiveable, which in turn made the end of the story really annoying. I'll freely admit that at one point during the reading of the book I thought up a lengthy list of similarities between Jane Eyre and Bella Swan, including:

*Both are small and not particularly strong, with brown hair and eyes
*Both are fairly intelligent characters who are likeable at the story's beginning
*Both fall in love with a very strong, passive-aggressive, moody freak named Edward who loves selfishly and is harboring a terrible secret that should logically bring a permanent end to their little romance
*Both lose all trace of a personality, become fixated on Edward, and end up marrying him despite all the reasons why they shouldn't

And see, here's the thing, Mr. Dalton. I was happy to dislike Jane Eyre. I enjoyed comparing the story to Twilight and scoffing in disgust when Internet comments said Mr. Rochester was one of the most romantic heroes in history. When I started watching your precious, poor quality 1983 miniseries, I wasn't doing so because I thought I was going to enjoy it; I was watching because I thought it might be rather unintentionally funny, as so many thirty-year-old telecasts are.

And dash you, Dalton, you made me like Rochester. My biggest complaint about the story is that he knowingly tries to make the woman he claims to love go against the law and her own morals, and your ridiculously appealing performance almost made me forget that. Ugh.

Of course, Zelah Clarke helped. You can't take all the credit. It was disconcerting seeing Jane Eyre smiling and laughing and being coy and teasing, but I liked it. It's nice to have your main character appear human for a change.

I guess I should mention your exceedingly upsetting appearance. Was it really necessary for you to be all tall and green-eyed and glorious-haired and adorable? Rochester's supposed to look like a stumpy mutant. It would have made you so much easier to hate.....

Well, that's all, loser. Don't think for a second I'm going to be watching your version of Wuthering Heights. I don't need a love for Heathcliff in my life.

Or do I? Blasted temptation.....

Sincerely,
Pearl Clayton

I mean, seriously, look at him, he's so dang pleased with himself.....