![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Please, no realism
Sep. 24th, 2007 11:27 pmEvery so often a sort of shudder goes through a genre of fiction that I like and authors and readers start murbling about realism. Things in the story should happen the way they happen in real life. There should be no easy outs. The story shouldn't have the neat kind of moral arithmetic that is so often lacking in every day existence. The good should not always succeed, heroes should not escape with their lives, and the lovers should not find Happily Ever After.
To this, I say *pfeh*.
Fiction is not real life.
In real life, it makes perfect sense that when I am riding the bus through a strange city I see through the window an old acquaintance, and I hop off at the next stop and run back and say hello, and it really is the acquaintance.
In real life, it makes perfect sense that my sister moved across the continent and found herself in a town populated by people from the town she left and the town I went to college in.
Real life is full of all sorts of awkward coincidences. But they can't be counted on. Sometimes they're good, sometimes bad, sometimes indifferent. Which of us really needs to be reminded of the possibility of slipping over the guard rail, of forgetting to lock the door, of making any of the thousand missteps that flesh is heir to etc. etc. ?
Fiction is transformative. Fiction is the magic trick, the hole in the bottom of the bucket that lets the water out. Fiction is the back of a coin with two heads.
No narrative fiction is more transformative than fantasy. Everything in fantasy, especially the fairy tale kind, has a sort of duality. The barmaids are all warriors and the simpletons are clever enough to beat the devil at riddles. The regular people turn out to be royalty, and the foibles of the royalty remind us that they are regular people too. The animals talk and the people are struck dumb. One man runs so fast he has to tie up one leg to keep from meeting himself on the way.
The thing about real life versus fantasy is that in real life, there comes the moment when the odds are so against us that the only rational course is to give up. To pack our bags and go home makes perfect sense. Out of any 100 people to try and solve the problem, 99 are doomed to fail. Or maybe it's 999. Or maybe it's just that the time is not right and some later prince will ride by and see all our hapless bones caught in the parting waves of briars. Magic is the place where the impossible happens.
We're not stupid. We know the odds. We understand perfectly that effort can lead to failure, kindness can be unrewarded, love can go sour, heroic gambles can fail. We don't need to be reminded of this. But the strange thing about life is that sometimes effort pays off, kindness is rewarded, love doesn't fade, and the heroic gamble seems in retrospect to have been the sensible step. These are the things that are easy to forget. These are the things that fiction, and especially fantasy (romance, mystery...) reminds us of.
So please, don't be too tempted by realism. Too much realism in fiction is like a string tied around a hand without any fingers - it's a pointless reminder of a pain we're not going to forget any time soon.
Celebrate the unlikely certitude, the fragile understanding, the improbable peace. Kiss and make amends. Tell me a story. Let it be the same old comforting story. Remind me that sometimes it all works out. Give me something to hope for, something to dream about. Call it magic.
To this, I say *pfeh*.
Fiction is not real life.
In real life, it makes perfect sense that when I am riding the bus through a strange city I see through the window an old acquaintance, and I hop off at the next stop and run back and say hello, and it really is the acquaintance.
In real life, it makes perfect sense that my sister moved across the continent and found herself in a town populated by people from the town she left and the town I went to college in.
Real life is full of all sorts of awkward coincidences. But they can't be counted on. Sometimes they're good, sometimes bad, sometimes indifferent. Which of us really needs to be reminded of the possibility of slipping over the guard rail, of forgetting to lock the door, of making any of the thousand missteps that flesh is heir to etc. etc. ?
Fiction is transformative. Fiction is the magic trick, the hole in the bottom of the bucket that lets the water out. Fiction is the back of a coin with two heads.
No narrative fiction is more transformative than fantasy. Everything in fantasy, especially the fairy tale kind, has a sort of duality. The barmaids are all warriors and the simpletons are clever enough to beat the devil at riddles. The regular people turn out to be royalty, and the foibles of the royalty remind us that they are regular people too. The animals talk and the people are struck dumb. One man runs so fast he has to tie up one leg to keep from meeting himself on the way.
The thing about real life versus fantasy is that in real life, there comes the moment when the odds are so against us that the only rational course is to give up. To pack our bags and go home makes perfect sense. Out of any 100 people to try and solve the problem, 99 are doomed to fail. Or maybe it's 999. Or maybe it's just that the time is not right and some later prince will ride by and see all our hapless bones caught in the parting waves of briars. Magic is the place where the impossible happens.
We're not stupid. We know the odds. We understand perfectly that effort can lead to failure, kindness can be unrewarded, love can go sour, heroic gambles can fail. We don't need to be reminded of this. But the strange thing about life is that sometimes effort pays off, kindness is rewarded, love doesn't fade, and the heroic gamble seems in retrospect to have been the sensible step. These are the things that are easy to forget. These are the things that fiction, and especially fantasy (romance, mystery...) reminds us of.
So please, don't be too tempted by realism. Too much realism in fiction is like a string tied around a hand without any fingers - it's a pointless reminder of a pain we're not going to forget any time soon.
Celebrate the unlikely certitude, the fragile understanding, the improbable peace. Kiss and make amends. Tell me a story. Let it be the same old comforting story. Remind me that sometimes it all works out. Give me something to hope for, something to dream about. Call it magic.
