Awaiting the New Year with "Alfred Kropp"

I’ve never been a fan of the New Year’s holiday. It seems so random to use the changing of the calendar as a reason to set goals, a starting-point for change. For many years, friends and I have made a practice of skipping the iconic descending ball, opting instead for the early bird special at a local bistro and bedtime before eleven. Yet as I write this on December 28th, I find myself waiting to begin again.

Perhaps human beings simply need this sense of renewed opportunity to re-prime the canvas and try another landscape, another color. Thus the appeal of New Year’s Eve lies in its very arbitrary (yet grand-scale) embrace of something we want every morning when we rise, every Monday when we return to the desk, and every season when we switch out the wardrobe and adjust the thermostat. As the champagne sloshes and the incomprehensible “Auld Lang Syne” crackles through the speakers, we become the Baby New Year, fresh and darling and full of possibility.

As a non-material gift to each of my sons, I read one book of their recommendation over the holidays. My eleven-year-old chose Rick Yancy’s “The Extraordinary Adventures of Alfred Kropp.” This splendid reimagining of the Arthurian legend bears mention here for its unique take on notions of death and “rebirth.” The titular character encounters death both literally during the wild adventure and psychologically as his sense of self is transformed through his experience. ‘Who is Alfred Kropp?’—the thematic question of the novel—evolves richly into ‘What does it mean to ask ‘who am I’ and what does the answer require of me?’

This is what New Year’s is all about. While not new information, it bears consideration if you feel at all moved (or distressed) by this quirky holiday. For myself, I plan to think hard about themes of identity and renewal in what I read and what I write…and I’m going to really try to get an agent.

So much for scoffing at that blasted Times Square ball!

The Compass Controversy & Santa Claus

Yes, I took my children to see the movie version of Philip Pullman’s fantastic novel, The Golden Compass. No, I did not fear for their mortal souls. I did not fear the impact of an atheist author’s ideas upon my sons’ young minds. I was a little worried they might be bored as reviews of the film were middling.

The Compass controversy hit home last Sunday when a fellow parent at our church expressed astonishment at my plan to take my sons to the movie. Unsurprisingly, she had neither read the book nor clearly understood the dispute. I suspect the same is true for many who have decried the film and its author whose atheism, more than his fiction, may be at the heart of many objections. Still, the groups working to kill the movie, and the journalists fueling their fire, seem to be succeeding.

Is this more evidence of a frightening trend (akin to themes of the novel) toward quashing minority ideas? I wanted to ask this mother what she feared from a big, technology-laden, fantasy film. Did she so doubt the faith and intellect of her children that she felt they could be corrupted by a Hollywood-glossed implication of another way of thinking about the soul? Would she also prevent them from reading about Freud, Marx, and others whose ideologies differ from her own? Pretending the likes of Saddam Hussein do not exist does not make such people less real. Even if she were to group the delightful and, I put forth, benign Mr. Pullman in such a category, reading and watching only what one purports to believe results in ignorance and a high risk of repeating history’s great tragedies.

This leads to a deeper question of how we tell children what we believe is the truth in the first place. Take, for example, Santa Claus. Recently my first grader asked me to make sure we left enough room in the car so that the gifts he had requested from Santa (and which, presumably, we were not hauling surreptitiously with us) could comfortably return home from our holiday spot in the mountains. His belief…conviction…dare I say faith?...that Santa would bring one particular item confused me. I pointed out that we did not have such an item to bring. Even after realizing that he meant post-Christmas-booty-delivery, I saw a savvy look in his eye which suggested he was well aware that he was communicating directly with Santa Claus.

Had one of his big brothers told him the “truth”? A smile rose to my lips as I imagined the conversation: The younger child’s wondering comment and the older child’s solemn revelation, accompanied by a warning not to let on to Mom and Dad. If my intuition was correct, it seemed my little boy had survived the revelation unscathed. Perhaps this was because he had learned it as he should, through his own curiosity and experience.

Another son endured a much rockier transition to the Santa truth when I, assuming his knowledge from comments he had made, revealed my identity unceremoniously. Tears followed, then a less magical season. I still believe he knew the truth but he did not want to be told it, particularly not by me. In contrast, coming to the knowledge of Santa Claus on his own, my first grade son experienced an intellectual awakening, a growing maturity, and a sense of concern for the loving parents who wanted to gift him with this charming falsehood for as long as possible.

And so we return to The Golden Compass with its supposed dangerous message that perhaps organized religion has a few flaws. Who didn’t know this already? Has anyone been watching what’s happening in the Middle East? If we want our children to grow into thoughtful, educated, compassionate human beings, wouldn’t we do well to make an overt effort to expose them to a variety of ideas, both in nonfiction and fiction, art and literature? If a belief in Santa Claus or democracy or religion goes untested, can it be truly held by any child or adult?

Truth, like justice, is a dangerous word. Look at teen sex and drinking statistics to see the success rate of simply telling young people to avoid something you believe to be bad or untrue. Instead, we should model tolerance for the many ways people deal with the great mysteries of our existence on this planet. We should offer great books, and good ones, and watch, a proud smile on our lips, as our children make their own, independent discoveries.

Help a child grow this season. Take them to see The Golden Compass. If not because it’s a great movie (it isn’t, although there are some wonderful CGI characters and impressive voice work), then to protest against those who would keep us away from different, brave ideas in the name of “truth.”

Yes, I took my children to see the movie version of Philip Pullman’s fantastic novel, The Golden Compass. No, I did not fear for their mortal souls. I did not fear the impact of an atheist author’s ideas upon my sons’ young minds. I was a little worried they might be bored as the reviews of the movie, unlike the book, were middling.
The Compass controversy hit home last Sunday when a fellow-parent at our church expressed astonishment at my plan to take my sons to the movie. Unsurprisingly, she had neither read the book nor clearly understood the dispute. I suspect the same is true for many who have decried the film and its author whose atheism, more than his fiction, may be at the heart of many objections. Still, the groups working to kill the movie, and the journalists fueling their fire, seem to be succeeding.
Is this more evidence of a frightening trend (akin to themes of the novel) toward quashing minority ideas? I wanted to ask this mother what she feared from a big, technology-laden, fantasy film. Did she so doubt the faith and intellect of her children that she felt they could be corrupted by a Hollywood-glossed implication of another way of thinking about the soul? Would she also prevent them from reading about Freud, Marx, and others whose ideologies differ from her own? Pretending the likes of Saddam Hussein do not exist does not make such people less real. Even if she were to group the delightful and, I put forth, benign Mr. Pullman in such a category, reading and watching only what one purports to believe results in ignorance and a high risk of repeating history’s great tragedies.
This leads to a deeper question of how we tell children what we believe is the truth in the first place. Take, for example, Santa Claus. Our family spends Christmas in the mountains which results in a number of logistical complications and questions. Recently my first grader asked me to make sure we left enough room in the car so that the gifts he had requested from Santa (and which, presumably, we were not hauling surreptitiously TO the mountains) could comfortably return with home us. His belief…conviction…dare I say faith?...that Santa would bring one particular item confused me. I pointed out that we did not have such an item to bring. Even after realizing that he meant post-Christmas-booty-delivery, I saw a savvy look in his eye which suggested he was well aware that he was communicating directly with Santa Claus.
Had one of his big brothers told him the “truth”? A smile rose to my lips as I imagined the conversation: The younger child’s wondering comment and the older child’s solemn revelation, accompanied by a warning not to let on to Mom and Dad. If my intuition was correct, it seemed my little boy had survived the revelation unscathed. Perhaps this was because he had learned it as he should, through his own curiosity and experience.
Another son endured a much rockier transition to the Santa truth when I, assuming his knowledge from comments he had made, revealed my identity unceremoniously. Tears followed, then a less magical season. I still believe he knew the truth but he did not want to be told it, particularly not by me. Perhaps what is best is a gradual understanding of the true nature of Santa Claus, supported by conversations with other children. Coming to the knowledge of Santa Claus on his own, my first grade son experienced an intellectual awakening, a growing maturity, and a sense of concern for the loving parents who wanted to gift him with this charming falsehood for as long as possible.
And so we return to the Golden Compass with its supposed dangerous message that perhaps organized religion has a few flaws. Who didn’t know this already? Has anyone been watching what’s happening in the Middle East? If we want our children to grow into thoughtful, educated, compassionate human beings, wouldn’t we do well to make an overt effort to expose them to a variety of ideas, both in nonfiction and fiction, art and literature? If a belief in Santa Claus or democracy or religion goes untested, can it be truly held by any child or adult?
Truth, like justice, is a dangerous word. Look at teen sex and drinking statistics to see the success rate of simply telling young people to avoid something you believe to be bad or untrue. Instead, we should model tolerance for the many ways people deal with the great mysteries of our existence on this planet. We should offer great books, and good ones, and watch, a proud smile on our lips, as our children make their own, independent discoveries.
Help a child grow this season. Take them to see The Golden Compass. If not because it’s a great movie (it isn’t, although there are some wonderful CGI characters and impressive voice work), then to protest against those who would keep us away from different, brave ideas in the name of “truth.”

The Trouble with 2000 Words

Writing is addictive. Writing 2,000 words a day for a month leaves you incapable of NOT writing every day. If you're the type who has gotten hooked on running, wine-with-dinner, or even tetris, I would think twice before trying NaNoWriMo. Don't get me wrong, the experience was fantastic, especially as I had really been wanting to write the story of THE BUS. Now, however, I find myself adrift, awaiting inspiration for the next story idea, and resisting (with only partial success) the urge to begin revising right away. Every craft book, ever NaNo blog, every writer-friend I have consulted insists that the manuscript be left alone for at least a couple of weeks. I am told I need some distance, some perspective. What I want is to dive back in and spend more time with my characters. Not opening that computer file is an act of will every day. I tried going back to revising my very pleasant middle grade ms, LIBRARY LIZARD, but the lure of THE BUS is so strong that I feel like an addict trying to tempt myself with weaker stuff. I'm just not biting.
I think I am afraid to let go of THE BUS because I've realized something about myself: I am a first-draft junkie. I love the thrill of the new character, the new idea. And letting the story go into pre-revision hibernation is often, for me, the beginning of the end of my love affair with the manuscript. It's been an ugly look in the mirror because it means that I have not been doing the hard revision work required to polish my manuscripts to submission quality lustre.
On the bright side, my compulsion has led to a pretty big pile of raw material to edit.
So, right now, I am going to push myself away from the computer. Lunch? (Remember that meal you used to eat before you started NaNo?) I am devoting December (okay, later in December and maybe January) to revision, however grueling, and to creating the best second draft of THE BUS that I can.
In 2008, I will actually polish and SUBMIT some stuff.
First Draft Junkie no more!