Yesterday on Facebook, the latest trend of status posting made me want to play Whack-a-Mole with a sledgehammer.
The issue? Countless posts telling me: "Express your undying love for your spouse, siblings, children, parents, pets, and basket-weaving pilates instructor by clicking 'Like.' If you sincerely cherish them and desire an eternity of celestial bliss, click 'Share'.”
I appreciate the sentiment, but, seriously, when did we lose the ability to express our emotions in our own words or physical contact? When did the depth of our feelings begin to be measured in the sheer numbers of mouse clicks we make? When did we lose the ability to express ourselves without the urging, direction, and/or coercion of others?
Maybe my consternation comes from being a child of the 60s. One of the greatest adages of that time was "Get real!" and we tried. Boy, did we try!
We did all we could within reason and our own quest for sanity to be unique, to be genuine, to be authentic in our personal expression, particularly our writing. When I became a teacher, that was the lesson most important to convey to my classes.
It was the lesson most rebelled against as well, most notably on essay tests. Rather than engaging in original thought, students found it far easier to regurgitate information from the textbook or the lectures.
Finally, in a pique of frustration that caused the veins on my face to resemble a relief map of the Himalayas, I exhorted, “Don’t tell me what I think! I know what I think. Tell me what you think.”
Those who did always garnered the best grades because they wrote with the most life and passion, their life and passion. Even if their position differed from mine, the strength of their words and thought stood out in contrast to those students who wrote in parrot mode.
Not surprisingly, this emphasis on originality enhances not only academic writing but also fiction writing.
One need not–in fact, should not–write what others demand of you. The topic–what you want to explore–should be yours. The characters–how they talk, how they act, how they feel–should be yours. The theme–what you want to say–should be yours. Anything else is false and virtually guaranteed to fail. It also will make your reader want to stick a moldy pickle up your nose.
A good place to begin is to examine how your characters relate. For example, take the Facebook trend. Maybe instead of having a mother sitting in front of her 27-inch desktop monitor sharing a status to tell everybody she loves her daughter, perhaps she could–I'm just pulling this out of the dark recesses of my cranium here– she could kiss her child on the head and say, “This is the most precious wilted dandelion bouquet I’ve ever seen! Let’s go eat ice cream!”
Maybe instead of having your pet-loving protagonist liking a picture of a dog chomping on a banana, your sympathetic human could give his canine a funky name like Pheideaux.
Maybe instead of following the movie quest formula of story plotting, you could find your own ways to twist it, embellish it, or even abandon it for something uniquely your own.
What you must never do is allow others tell you what your subject should be.
This brings me to the most disturbing piece I read on Facebook yesterday.
Yesterday.
September 11.
A day rife with possibilities for writers, artists, newscasters... However, one blogger decided he should tell one of the most successful syndicated cartoonists how his comic strip should mark the day.
My first response was to agree that anybody in mass media would want to commemorate the events nineteen years ago. The attack was too monumental not to acknowledge, especially for somebody as renowned as Garfield creator Jim Davis. The fact that Davis has never observed the occasion is a bit disconcerting, compounding the perception that now is the time.
So, the critic Virgil Texas had me until he/she advocated not only that Davis change his habits, but follow the lead of another comic strip, stating, “It even would not have had to take up the entire strip. Witness how the creator of Luann tastefully shoehorns in a poignant tribute on the tenth anniversary of 9/11….”
My mouth twitched. A quiet gurgle in my stomach swelled into a deafening rumble. My favorite Minnesota Twins scorekeeping pencil snapped between my clenched jaws. I broke out my Nerf rockets ready to attack anybody whose parents even entertained the idea of naming their child Virgil.
I'm sorry, but first of all, from a strictly word-choice stance, tastefully and shoehorns just don’t work together. The mental images evoked by conjoining their respective definitions ...? Tasting and shoes?
Really?
Blech.
Secondly, shoehorns are used to force you feet into a pair of shoes, particularly somebody else's shoes. Metaphorically, I guess, the words work if the writer meant that Davis should force himself to acknowledge the date in his comic strip, no matter his sincerity. However, the fact that anybody would advocate forced observance of one of history's greatest tragedies, particularly in a prescribed manner is detestable and worthless.
Compelled actions, half-hearted words, or enforced cartoons would not honor those lost on that horrible day. Rightly or wrongly, these "creations" would only qualify Davis to join the ever-increasing list of hucksters and opportunists who constantly abuse the memory of that day by saying, “See how patriotic I am? Here. I have something to sell you.” They would have no more effectiveness or genuineness than liking somebody's post on Facebook.
Anyone alive on that fateful day has his/her own distinct memories—the fear, the confusion, the rage. At the time, those emotions were real, not posturing. Because they were, all the politicians, religious leaders, and avaricious twits who used, misused, and abused the tragedy to make a buck rightfully received more scorn than any amount of money could ever compensate.
Even a nineteen years later, those feelings endure—just as real, just as raw, just as excruciating–immediately below the surface. People feigning reverence only to achieve the approval of self-appointed judges rip the scab off the old wounds renewing the pain and anger.
In addition, they do a disservice to anybody who died that day, anybody who lost somebody, anybody who bears the emptiness of a world now devoid of its innocence. Everybody. The self-righteous judges forcing their behaviors on others bear the stigma of being posers and charlatans who capitalize on the pain of others. And deservedly so.
If I were as rich and widely-read as Davis, would I use my platform to mark the anniversary of September 11? I’d like to think so.
But I hope I would not do so because somebody told me I should, not because I was shamed into "liking" somebody's status, but because the words inside me demanded to be spoken in the way only I can say and feel them.
The words of an inspired writer—real words speaking real emotions and original thoughts—have far more impact than those shoehorned into the thought bubble of a cartoon cat, far more than can any "shared" status on social media. So the lesson of today? Get real. Be original. Write it your way.
Just sayin’.
Sorry for the rant. Going upstairs for a cookie now.
Oh. One last thought.
Love you, Garfield.
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