Feminism and its impact on fictional heroine archetypes

That? - That’s what I actually got to wondering.  I’ve been toiling with a rather oddball bit of fiction, and have chosen to use it as the test kitchen for future writing.  This has meant an intense amount of research across multiple subjects.  Well, research interspersed with Facebook, catchy indie rock, and liters of coffee, but you get the idea.  I’m not trying to redefine a genre, or write my magnum opus.  I’ve already done the scrambled eggs and bacon – I’d like to make a substantial brunch.  I really can only define what it will be by what it won’t, and it won’t be anything within my comfort zone.  Of this, I am pleased.

Generally speaking.

The query I have is how to make better characters.  I have a hell of an adventure mapped out that, honestly, writes itself.  The characters are good, well-defined, and pretty likeable… save their whole dynamic being more predictable than either a night playing a SquareEnix videogame, or a fraternity kegger ending with someone vomiting in a hall closet.  Combined.

See, if a male character has to go through a series of trials and tribulations, he’s considered a very functional – albeit, normal - character.  Why is it, then, that when this character is gender swapped and undergoes the same process, is she considered “strong”?  Who has created these standards?  Why do they exist? Shouldn’t she be substantial enough for just having played the role?

Why is Zoe Washburne considered stronger than Lara Croft?  Why is Lisbeth Salander stronger than Veronica Mars?  What makes Stephanie Plum stronger than Harry Dresden?  He’s a wizard, for ball’s sake – a wizard!

These little wonders made me take the theory a step further down the road.  See, the basic thought would be that women’s rights have been propelled so highly that they surpass men’s rights.  That same basic thought proposes that this is a good thing.  If you are thinking that, stop it.  Seriously.  That’s fucking stupid.  There’s a very basic principal that exists in anthropology, mathematics, socioeconomics, politics, et-frickin-al, and it outlines that the current “normal” level of equilibrium is well below the ideal.  In order to achieve full equilibrium, one controlled factor must be elevated and leveled.  After this leveling, all controlling factors would create a new equilibrium.  If you can’t tell by the way I’m detailing all of this, I have – in fact – forgotten its name; feel free to contribute. 

In a more direct explanation, this would mean society agrees to propel one demographic lower while pushing another higher.  It then reinforces this through regular indoctrination of every person introduced into that group.  We already have an innate desire to hold a woman’s life in higher regard – it’s part of programming for preservation of the species.  The modern way of thinking takes this notion of preservation, and tells you why men must do this: because they are inferior.

I don’t want a woman who is ‘better’ – I want a woman who is ‘as good as’.  The problem is how to achieve this, while making her memorable.  If I follow popular literature, she would have to be tragically saved by a beloved male in freezing cold water outside a boat sinking in the Atlantic, or survive a violent assault and reciprocate by tattooing “I am a sadistic pig and a rapist” on the assailant’s stomach.  Both are examples of what we’ve accepted as a strong female lead.  In the case of the former: American romanticism and the perpetuation of the disposable male.  More on that in a bit.

On the latter, though – now THAT’s something to go on about.  In a country filled with gross inequalities the likes of which we have not seen as largely here in America, she IS a strong lead.  What intrigues me (bit of conjecture here) is that while women can rally behind Lisbeth Salander, this was a character created for men.  By making this character a battle flag, the plight of women’s oppression in Sweden would have never reached the magnitude that it has since Stieg Larsson’s first printing.  And not just the banner of females, but the hero of men alike.  Those that can’t view her as a hero are just enough afraid of her to do whatever she asks.

Sometimes, fear is as effective a weapon as guns or knives.  

The American expectation is to give a woman equal rights.  I agree with this – I don’t feel one human should have authority - or be a limiting factor in any way – over their right to life, liberty, and the true pursuit of happiness. 

Oh, and men are also taught that it’s always “women and children first”, don’t share your feelings, don’t cry, don’t hit a woman, they are the fairer sex so tread lightly around them, and ignore their petulant child because she can, at least, have them.  If you get sick or are feeling depressed, tough it out, bottle it up, and you’ll be good.  While we’re at it, we’re also going to carve up your genitals, but they’re not going to, so, deal with that one.  We will also back this up by making you still look to be the stronger of  two sexes so that you can support all of this, and be ready to give your life for them.

And, uh, one final note: you’re not going to get any recognition for the rest of your life, and, most of them are going to say you’re not doing enough.  If you complain about it, other guys will thinking you’re either joking or pussy, and women will just think you’re an insufferable arsehole.  Got that? – thanks! – have fun being male!

Look, I get it.  Women can have babies, guys can’t.  They also have a monthly cycle that has taught me the lesson of knowing when to shut the fuck up and chose my battles (praise be unto Aunt Irma).  Fine.  I support an international standard of giving them the week off of work during this.  I wouldn’t want to go into work like that, man.  But beyond that? – we are all human.  Plain and simple.  I don’t have any right to deny women their rights as human beings, they don’t have the right to cut off my dick while I sleep at night.  It really is as easy as that.

Maybe it’s that these strong female characters remove men from their lives.  Which, while they are awfully badass while doing this, strikes me as being even more sexist.

So the question still remains: what makes a female character strong?  I believe equilibrium - finding ways that the character compliments a group and playing it out in spades.  Hermione Granger was a stronger character because she was integral to that dynamic.  Each character in that triad had their specialties, without which, the group would fail.  Zoe Washburne (from Firefly, if you’re wondering) worked well with the crew of Serenity for this same reason. 

Maybe even they’ll just be charitable enough to say “Thank you,” after I’ve held the doors open for them.  I know my female characters would.

Update

Didn't forget about you, bloggie blog.  Been busy, dedicating my daily writing to a new idea.  Alright, several of them all crammed together, and comletely unlike anything I'd written before.  It's invigorating, and I feel like I'm just genuinely having 'fun' with it.

If everything stays on track, check back in a few months.  I've got one hell of a surprise up my sleeve ;)

you're only crazy if you still

surround yourself with people who don't get you.

Rivers

I was at an impasse.  I had wanted to write about the wedding, the death, and the adventures since, but I couldn't think of where to start.  Sure, it could have been possible to compartmentalize.  However, to convey the emotional impact of each situation, each must be explained as a part of the other.  So, I'm coming to the conclusion, two weeks later, to just say to hell with it and go from here.

As a bit of background, this block started a day after I realized I couldn't write anything.  I went for an early morning run around our new apartment complex.  It was my first morning run in ages, and it felt damn good.  Well, until the part where my feet hitched and I flopped full-force on my ass.  Still, that was hilarious in its own way.

Throughout the past two weeks, I kept trying to think of where to start.  I finally received a new resource in the mail - Oblique Strategies, a Brian Eno product.  The concept is simple - pull a card, and do what it says.  There's no questions as its all interpretational.  The card I pulled did not make things easier:

Humanize something free of error.

Death, weddings, car trips and traffic, making friends and acquaintances - these are all ALREADY human traits, and as such, were already prone to error.  I have several memories that all tie back to water.  Hell, once I dragged a girlfriend through a forest and over a river to leave a memoriam to a dead relative.  I think it was a phone, and I was wearing white pants.  Both were utterly destroyed that day by falling into said river.

A river is perfect and free of error, until tampered by humans.  This is much like humans are perfect, until tampered by other humans. There are no governing laws or requirements on the river, no guidelines or performance quotas.  Just, "Go, and be wet." That's it.  Humans are much the same creatures, but we constantly have to stick our forks in the mud and tinker with each other.  Even when it's not intended, we have influence over others. 

We draw our notions of failure and defeat from others.  Water is not conscious in the same ways that we are.  It has not had someone explaining to go left over right, and how one direction is fundamentally wrong.  Yet, we allow other people to tell us what is the right way to live, and what is wrong- rather, we even elect people to dictate this.

Now, these same people can dictate the flow of the river.  After all, success is a notion derived for a river, not from other rivers.  However, a river's success will always be measured in its ability to go with the flow.  There will be weakness in the beds and banks that will be hammered relentlessly until new streams give birth to new rivers.  There is always a way with persistence.

Rivers suffer what could be seen as an unusual triumphant ebullience from flooding and swelling.  Humans do much the same, but consider it as fighting and feasting.  When rain comes into our lives, and death casts that familiar shadow, we find a way to celebrate joy - the joy in being alive.  We move fast and hard, swelling on food and drink, laughing, and crying.  Yet, we try to choke the river as it conquers the rain in its life.  It doesn't just fight the beast: It devours the rain whole, the swollen stomach filling its shores and nearby towns, showing that if it can conquer one beast, it can take them all.

Rapids and rough spots are the changes of its daily life.  These bring a certain joy to the water, shifting the ways in which it flows and falls.  The water knows it will be water afterwards, so what's the worry?  We view them with horror and stress.  We do not want the challenges that may filter and shape us, so we stand rigid in adversity, letting the situation sculpt us like a stone in the rapids making us dull and inconspicuous.  These are the defining quirks of a river, yet misery humans avoid.

Sometimes you just have to completely let go of something, in order to start again - in order to make something even better.  The river flows freely, unable to avoid the point where two streams form a larger body.  They merge, beginning life in a way that is fundamentally the same in nature as it was before, but completely different in form and functionality.  It has contributing factors and greater momentum to power through the harder obstacles in life.  Humans take of this art willingly through unions and marriages.  We combine our forces to tackle the rapids and watermills.  We combine our forces to break down walls, and to surge dams.

Years ago, I was told the only way to combine these streams for maximum efficacy, is to let some of the individuality be lost in the merger.  In later years, I have found this to be some of the worst advice I have ever received.  Sure, you can split the bills, household chores, but even when water merges, you can tell by the minerals and stones where it came from.

And that's what it comes down to: a river has minerals and stones.  When people walk over them, they can be sharp, smooth, big, small, oblong, or square.  What we all need is less focus on the river, and more on being the river.   We need to be the water, flowing, proudly bearing our perseverance, and remembering that the ones stepping on us, don’t define us - we define their interaction with us.

Telephobia

You've heard the argument before - hell, we all have. Is being 'more connected' causing us to be 'less connected?'  For the longest time, I would have said yes.  I don't know on how many occasions I'd rather have a text message or three instead of an entire conversation.  Yet, when engaged socially, I certainly don't shy away from a good conversation.  Is this just a matter of reaching my own comfort level with the advancements in technology, or am I finally becoming comfortable with the pacing of the new communicative methods?

Let’s start small.  I grew up on pen-and-paper mail for staying in touch.  I was writing letters before it was given the moniker 'snail-mail.'  That's not an indication that I'm old - I’m not, by any stretch - I began spreading my writing wings at a young age.  I was sending hand-written letters to my grandfather by the time I was six; typed, by eight; and taking writing tips on my short stories by the time I was ten.

I didn't have much to do at that point in my life.  The status of my parents was in the air.  I was acclimating to being a latchkey kid.  I was shifting between three different school districts.  Tight, cramped corners and hidden hallways all looked welcoming and friendly, as if to say, "Come in - we have hot cocoa."

I became attached to our word processor.  It was a beast of a machine - about two feet high, two feet deep, and three across.  The screen was monochromatic, built into the hulking rock, and it was a gigantic eight inches diagonally.  I began writing the first shorts on there.  I drafted the earliest revision of the Manhattan concepts, Miza, and the fallen angels on this amalgamation of silicone and cinder block.  I conceptualized worlds upon worlds, while all being within each other.  I hid my body away, and stretched my mind from here to the galactic center.  On occasion, back again, too.

This disconnect was hard to grasp when I was first brought around to cell phones and gadgetry.  Despite being in middle school for the Clinton era's march of the internet (which, Al Gore did not create, people, and, for fuck's sake, even now there are so many people that say he did), our most accessible outlet was a public library terminal.  My first chat-room experience, eBay, and midget porn were all witnessed at that terminal.

I only regret setting up the eBay account.  Seriously, it was created within weeks of eBay going live, and has cost me so much money from all the awesome things I find on there.  At least the chat room and porn were free.

I was accustomed to not having a huge, virtual world following me everywhere.  I was comfortable being sociable as needs be, introverted otherwise.  This is likely why now, ten years after major internet saturation, my perspective is reaching a hazy grey.

At first, I found the technology novel.  Texting was brand new, and it didn't make sense why people wouldn't just call someone.  Of course, my first cellphone looked like it was from the Matrix movies - not convenient for such things.  Then I bought a Nokia taco-phone (n-Gage).  With that, I could play games, surf the web, and - most importantly - play music.  This was an eye opener for me, as I refused from that point on to be separated from my phone. 

Good lord, I played so much bad music on that thing.  I had the complete Katamari Damacy soundtrack on there.  We lived in Florida, and on the warm afternoons, I’d roll my windows down and crank that like I was the most gansta playa ever.  Same goes for Cowboy Bebop.  I also had Radiohead and Soul Coughing on there, largely to sing along to.  I knew there songs so well I was a virtual Tony Danza, only in a mobile format.

I don't like complete silence.  I had several ear infections that got pretty bad when I was a kid.  While only a partial factor, my ears are constantly ringing with tinnitus.  Sure, you can zone it out, but in a silent room, it's like a child screaming two inches from your ear, while you're hung over, under-caffeinated, hungry, and doing the walk of shame, in yesterday’s underwear. 

Just the thought of that makes me want to punt a child.

Back on point: I found a launching pad and expanded my interest in tech from there.  We all have our basic reasons we like something - color, fashion choices, popularity, function, blah blah blah.  I like to be able to sync up a keyboard and jam the hell out.  That's why I have an 'old' phone (came out March of last year): it lets me do just that.  But, the more I use it, the less it's a 'phone.'

This is an argument I established years ago.  A telephone is simply used to communicate an audible conversation from one point to the next.  These things - these are personal communication devices.  Or, they were.  Nowadays, they're full on micro-PCs.

Yet, they all depend on sociability.  Would you have one of these if you had no one to keep in touch with? - To talk to?  Would you have virtual social circles, short-form interpersonal conversations, or even an email account that you actually used if you didn't have one of these?  The device allows us instant contact with everyone, and, at a pace we can all feel comfortable with.  I've always said, a phone call goes both ways, and the same can be said of all this cyber-centric communication.

An era is always passing.  You always have some doofus walking the streets with a sandwich board proclaiming doom and gloom.  In the case of how we communicate, though, we're all just remembering fondly and moving forward steadfastly.  The era is dying, and there were no heralds to bring in the next.

Well, unless you count falling off a pier while texting a herald.  Me? - I call that fucking hilarious.

In a future that's going to contain face-mounted personal computers, smart glass windows, and flexible circuit boards, there is little now that will be familiar in another decade.  The best trait of mankind is that we constantly adapt.  So why waste the time complaining about the adaptation, and instead, share my stories on your Facebook or Twitter? 

I'd love to meet your friends, without having to meet them.

Granite

In 60 days, I had written 65 pieces, and posted 51.  60,000 words typed and edited.  Nothing like discretion - honestly, they were well written.  I just felt like I could do better.

Rather than progressively churning out the daily whim, I pulled the plug for a week - gave myself a few days to just observe, and think.  This was a good chance to just be alone with my thoughts and not have to be accountable for their output. 

Let's start with the most basic observation: I dislike people.  This isn't a typical agoraphobic response, ie: being afraid of all the bodies.  I mean, that factors in, but I just don't like being around stupid people.  Not inferior people, so much as impolite.  I think that's the kicker: show some damn human decency.  For years I've gone on about how much I dislike children, but I think my problem is with their idiot parents.

On Sunday, I spent four hours in IKEA.  First of all, no mortal should ever spend four hours in IKEA.  I couldn't read American road signs properly for half an hour after leaving.  Compound that with the screaming migraine of a 2-to-1 child-to-parent ratio, and it was a nightmare. These kids were running every which way, shrieking their heads off.  At one point, I sat in a chair, just to have some child climb up the arm, over me, and onto the back of the chair.  The mother smiles and declares how cute and curious he is.  Ma'am? - He's nearly ten, and feels like the weight of a Humvee while he uses my groin as a foothold while climbing the Mt. Fucking Everest of chairs.

The only thing curious is the amount of restraint mustered to prevent hurling this child out a thin glass window eight stories up.

This experience reinforced something I'd known for a while.  I'm accustomed to my own happy, silent bubble.  In a way, it has left its mark on me.  Sometimes, I just require isolation and silence.  This is a pretty straightforward point.  I can take in a lot and keep going through the day.  I used to have my solitary commute as decompression time, but so much of that is spent in traffic now that it just adds kindling to the bonfire.

I still feel like I could do better.  That's the one nagging thought that makes me want to keep writing little essays and asides.  Can't say that I've ever met someone who was exceptional at a craft, without exerting their skills within that craft.  Sure, there's some leniency for natural talent, but even that can be honed to a perfection.

With that, I make one more mark in a man, cleaving the ineffectual block in twain, bringing shape to the shapeless.  If, "Only those evil live to see/ their own likeness in stone," then I may as well immortalize myself in paper and ink.  Seems to last longer.

 -Quote from Why?'s song, "By Torpedo or Crohn's."-

Pain

You can tell a lot about someone by their reaction to pain.  This is, of course, addressing the wide arrays of pain – emotional, physical, and mental, etc.  Some people can freak out at the lightest prick of a needle; others can withstand the crunch of a sledgehammer.  Then, there’s me and the story I have for you.

I was born a typical wussy towards pain.  The slightest bump and I’d be shouting about it.  In retrospect, I think I was just searching for attention.  Or, for a great chance to do any of Michael Jackson’s dance moves.  Yes, my childhood existed in an era before he was weird.  Alright, it existed in an era predating his child sexual assault issues.

Fine: it existed in the same era that his jerri curl was lit on fire while taping a Pepsi commercial.

My parents favored corporal punishment.  Hell, were I to be a parent, I would favor a corporal punishment, just, maybe, a little more judiciously.  And so, I began to build a resistance to pain.  Over the years, we’d add a crack to the skull, lacerations to my back and legs, a few biking scrapes, and that gets me out of the teenage years.

Did I ever tell you about how half my finger was sliced off in a freak ice skating accident?  Great story, this one.  It was a church function, and maybe my second time on ice skates.  I thought I was so rad as I went around in circles jamming out to Jamiroquai on my Walkman.  The previous summer, I’d met several girls at a Baptist summer camp.  Alright, one I’d met at a music competition that was really into me but I was, like, fourteen and oblivious as I had eyes for a hot blonde.  The other was from the Baptist camp, and apparently, she liked me, too.

Either way, one of them snuck up behind me and jabbed me in the ribs.  It startled me so damn badly I unintentionally pulled a Dick Van Dyke prat fall.  Everybody laughed, and we got back up again.  A few seconds later one of them tried to grab my hand, and started freaking out.  I saw she had blood on her hand, and reached out to see what was wrong, just to see part of my right, ring finger dangling by a bit of sinew. 

I did not feel a thing.  Not even “phantom limb.” Or, “finger.”  Or is it “appendage” in this case?  I was actually quite beside myself for a good ten seconds just in pure amusement.  Then, my mother heard the commotion, physically ran onto the ice, did her nurse thing of chipping up chunks of ice and balling it up in and around my finger and hand, and scooted me out to her van.  As we left, they reversed the flow of skaters on the ice to help break up the blood I had oozed everywhere.  Hilarious and disgusting.  We arrived at good ‘ol Ira Davenport (only as a matter of necessity), where they reattached my finger.  Only, with a slight turn counter-clockwise, but who’s looking?

I’ve had my fill of pain and discomfort.  I’ve held a cane, and had steel supporting my feet.  That created a pain I still have daily.  I don’t medicate it, though.  I’ve been offered a daily prescription, but I just don’t see the point.  Pain is a reminder that everything’s working, so why would I want to prescribe it away?

Now, I’m not talking about prescriptive necessity.  If the Doc wants to give me five days of percocets after having three teeth pulled: let’s do this.  When I had my eyes out last March, they gave me a full ten day run.

Let’s start with the exquisite joy of having the outer epithelial layer of your eyeball melted away.  Then, in the case of my right eye, jockeying out the cornea.  After setting a new one by squeegeeing it into place, running  a few more scans, sculpting it with a laser (yes, you can smell the skin burning), and then setting  a glass lens over it while it heals.  All in all, my eye was propped open for about four minutes, and, while I would never deal with that again, I would absolutely encourage anyone to look into the process.  From what Rae tells me, Lasik is even easier (mine was a PRK, or photorefractive keratectomy, with some remodeling on the window treatments).

Of course, I only ended up using the percocet for about three days.  See, while Rae was at work, I would be inverted on the couch watching Netflix.  Oh it was a grand time – I watched all the Care Bear movies, Voltron – even Up.  Several times.  The first time, though, was very early in the day – about 9 or 10:30.  Part way through – while I was on the percocet, mind you – I really wanted a balloon.  So much that I put on my hoodie and shoes, a hat and my safety goggles.  These were a really winning pair of facial accessories, solely intended for purpose over fashion.  They looked like huge swimmer’s goggles, but with a near-black tint.  The idea is to tape them to your face so that you don’t squish your eyeballs while sleeping.

I sleep like a dead salmon, so this is a viable concern.

Anyway, I go thrusting out of the house in my pajama pants and a hoodie, and could swear to this day that I went to CVS for a balloon.  It wasn’t until I was regaled with the full story two weeks ago that I knew better.  I had gone back to our old apartment for one last walk through.  Alright, that’s a lie: I’d gone back to take our toilet paper.  Seriously.  I am not giving my toilet paper to someone who will not enjoy its cottony softness on their bum the way that I can.

I ran into one of the maintenance guys on the way out, and he began going on this grand yarn.  Apparently, that same time I’d gone for balloons, he’d escorted me back to my apartment after I’d gotten into an argument with one of our neighbor’s lawn globes.  They’re about the size of bowling balls and all colors under the sun – know what, let me put it to you this way: I had frequently used her trashy front yard as a landmark for directing people to my house.  I’d apparently had the cognizance to inform him of my medicated condition, but he’s been cracking himself up senseless since then.  I do remember that afternoon, waking up on the couch, and thinking the pills weren’t cutting it.

So, I stopped taking them.  Presumably – to the best of my knowledge – before I did anything stupid.

I don’t allow my life to be held back by pain.  This sensation is a natural reaction to an adverse element.  It’s heralding a new phase in the healing process.  I don’t like running simply because my feet and legs will hurt just as much either way.  I don’t do this to give me some justification for the pain. 

I do this because I can.  Because I can handle the pain.  Because it makes me stronger.  Because, at the end of the day, I define my life – not my pain.