Reading, 'Riting, and Ramblings

When people are afraid of something, they tend to worship it. They obsess and they fantasize and they focus all of their fears and hopes into that one terrifying object. Let's take the most basic fear shared by everything in the kingdom Animalia: death. Everyone's terrified to death of death.

So what do we do? We glorify it. All of the most popular television shows have to do with death—preventing it, evading it, or causing it. Death makes heroes. Death makes martyrs. Half of our favorite stories end with marriage, and the other half end with death.

The most celebrated books and movies are about other things we fear, which are often related to death. War. Dictators. Loneliness. Poverty. A hundred years ago, we were all frightened of the Jews, the Negroes, and the Orientals, so they turned up as the default villains of our media. Twenty years ago everyone feared new technologies, so we had a fictional orgy of rogue supercomputers and planets overrun by vicious unfeeling robots.

Now, thanks to some recent tragedies, we're all focusing our hysteria on guns.

The most dangerous thing about guns isn't the weapons themselves. I have a half dozen tools sitting in my kitchen just as capable of ending lives as the rifle in the bedroom. But nobody ever says we should restrict people with mental illnesses from buying butcher knives. Nobody campaigns for a national ban on household cleaners, or balls of twine, or frying pans, though they're much more practical and handy for murder than a troublesome gun. They're just not nearly as scary or glamorous. They're plain, boring, everyday things. When's the last time you saw a TV FBI agent pull a frying pan on a mafia boss?

No, the most dangerous thing about guns is the widespread ignorance about them, which makes them sparkle with a dark, mysterious allure. They're frightening. They're magical. They're awesome.

Disturbed kids who go on rampages don't need guns to kill. They have a lethal smorgasbord of other options. But they choose guns because that's what all of their disturbed role models used. Because the magical boom-boom sticks make them feel powerful. Because guns are flashy and scary and the entire country goes into a tizzy when they hear the word "semi-automatic." Nobody quakes in fear and regret when they see a teenager holding a steak knife. But a gun...that's where the infamy is. That's what gets your name in all the headlines.

If you want crimes to stop, you have to get at the underlying problems that drive people to commit them. In the case of gun violence, the problem is cultural. The way we portray them in our media is downright irresponsible.

1) You never, ever, ever point a gun at someone unless you intend to kill him.

As a responsible gun owner, Sweetie hates to see characters on TV waving guns around when they don't intend to use them. Sexy police officers/detectives/lawyers in Fiction Land like to point guns at bad guys' heads with the safety off, finger on the trigger, just to intimidate or "persuade" or simply look badass. But in real life, cops with more than five minutes of gun safety training know that you never point at a target unless you intend to destroy it. Destroy it. It doesn't matter if you think it isn't loaded—there's always a chance that it is and you forgot. And you certainly don't put your finger anywhere near the trigger until you intend to shoot.

Real cops don't need to pull guns to intimidate. They can intimidate just by standing and speaking a certain way. They can disable criminals with less deadly weapons or their bare hands. I took a self-defense class from a detective in college. He could get a man twice his size squealing on the ground in less than ten seconds. The only reason a decent cop would draw a gun is if the target threatened his or her own life. On a related note...

2) There's no such thing as a "warning shot."

A couple of years ago, a woman in Florida went into hysterics, grabbed a rifle from the garage, and shot at her husband and two kids. Nobody was hurt, but she left plenty of bullet holes in the walls by their heads.

The reaction in the liberal wing of the Internet was beyond perplexing. Instead of condemning the dangerous and unhinged actions of the criminal, avowed enemies of the NRA started fundraising campaigns to support her.

"But she didn't mean to kill anyone! She was protecting herself. They were warning shots."

Have you ever tried to shoot a gun? You need a lot of practice to control them. Cowboys in tall-tale Westerns can shoot through a wedding ring tossed into the air, but in real life most people will aim at one spot and hit somewhere else. With one jerk in the wrong direction, that woman's charges would have ratcheted up from "assault with a deadly weapon" to "murder."

Besides the real possibility of killing someone you "didn't intend to" (see number one), gunshots still do a lot of damage even if they don't hit people. Bullets hitting concrete or asphalt shatter and skip off. Bullets shot up into the air will come back down. Bullets going through thin walls or ceilings can hit people on the other side.

And if you'd consider shooting a bad guy in the foot or a hand a "warning shot," you need a serious reality check, because...

3) Getting shot in the foot isn't some little ol' thing.

In Fiction Land, guns are always dangerous until they're conveniently not. Characters will happily shoot out door locks from point blank range, shoot at cables to make chandeliers fall with a spectacular crash, or shoot at people's feet to make them "dance." And if they happen to hit one of those feet—or an upper arm or a thigh—it's no biggie. The victim can just clutch at it and whine a little as the savvy detective gets him to 'fess up.

So people with no real-world experience with guns get the idea that bullet wounds are only a problem if they're in your torso or your head. They're disgusted by the idea of cops shooting to kill, but think it's okay to "just hit 'em in the leg or something." When a local cop literally shot a fleeing thief in the leg last month, everyone praised him for great police work. "He apprehended him without hurting him!"

Have you ever dropped a glass or a book on your foot when you weren't wearing shoes? Hurts like a mother, doesn't it? Now turn that glass or book into a compact nub of metal flying 800 miles per hour. A bullet will shatter your bone, rip through your muscle, obliterate your veins and arteries, and leave permanent nerve damage. It's about as minor and comedic as being impaled with a sharp lead nail.

I'll reiterate: never raise a gun unless you're willing to destroy the thing it's pointing at and everything around it. If you don't have a reason or intention to kill—not injure or distract, but kill—you don't have any business even loading the thing.

You too often hear about kids who accidentally shoot each other while playing with Daddy's handgun. Yet you never hear about kids who accidentally slit each others' throats while playing with Mommy's kitchen knife. Why? Because the handsome cops in movies and books don't go around putting knives to suspects' throats to intimidate, interrogate, or "warn" people. Slitting throats is horrible and graphic, but waving guns around willy-nilly is cool.

It's easy to see how this disconnect between guns as killing machines and guns as harmless props came about. You can't show a detective beating a suspect with a baton or threatening people with knives on TV. That would make him look like a bad, violent guy.

But threatening people by pointing a gun from a distance "isn't" violent. It looks impressive, elegant. If the suspect moves, "pew pew," bad guy crumples, and it's over. No mess. No pain. It works the same way in books. You can't describe a heroine carving a man to pieces. She can't strangle him or run him over or do anything else to get her pretty hands dirty—who would sympathize with her then? Nope, you have to give her a gun. Then she isn't a remorseless killer; she just squeezed a piece of metal.

And that's how the wrong message gets out to both kids and adults. Killing people is wrong, but it's less wrong if you do it by shooting them. Guns are clean. Guns are easy. You can play around with them without consequences. If they happen to kill someone, it isn't your fault—the guns did all the work. The guns are evil, not the people holding them. Take them away, and the world will be a peaceful place.

We need to start thinking about guns the same way we do about other dangerous tools like cars, lighters, and kitchen knives. We have to stop turning guns into a "forbidden fruit" by portraying them irresponsibly in our fiction. We have to stop writing thrillers starring chiseled and/or buxom PIs who take gun ownership lightly, who cock hammers for show and shoot kneecaps off like it's nothing.

There's a terrible disconnect between societal attitudes towards rape in the real world and rape in fiction. In the real world, rape is always bad (unless it happens to men in prison, but that's another story). But in fiction—particularly romances—rape can either be good or bad. And there's a very delicate difference between them: When the rapist is handsome and cool, rape is good. When he's not, rape is bad.

I stumbled on an amusing comedy routine the other day by the late Bill Hicks.

I tell you, Satan's gonna have no trouble taking over here 'cause all the women are gonna say, "What a cute butt."

"He's Satan!"

"You don't know him like I do."

"He's the Prince of Darkness!"

"I can change him."

As long as a character has a gorgeous face and a manly figure, readers will cling to the belief that he has a heart of gold deep down, and only the heroine can dig it out and polish it up if she perseveres. In one of the Anne of Green Gables books, Anne writes a short story. Everyone loves it. Except...they wanted the heroine to end up with the villain. The hero was boring. Anne is shocked—the villain was a horrible, horrible person. Why on earth would you wish the poor girl a fate like that? But her friends look at her earnestly and say, "She could change him!"

Here we've muddied the waters with one of the unfortunate rules of gender roles: Men Act, Women Are. A male character who is good and noble but does nothing exciting is "lame." A male character who's mean and selfish but does something, even if it's malicious and sadistic, automatically wins a boat full of shippers for being a Sexy Badass. I've talked before about how the standard is flipped for females, who can whine and cry and be as useless as they want. As long as they're "nice," they're beloved.

This is how we end up with Rape Is Fun stories. Admirable heroines are sweet and virginal martyrs; admirable heroes are rough and bold leaders who take what they want by force. And when you throw in visuals of heartthrob actors...hoo boy.

I watched a Korean miniseries once in which the heroine was torn between two love interests (as they always are). One was a sweet childhood friend working hard to support his family and achieve his dream of becoming a major league baseball player. He took her in when she needed a home, helped her avenge her parents' murder, and endured all kinds of abuse for her sake. The other was a spoiled heir who sent mobsters to beat up the hero and kidnap the heroine. But! He was played by a popular pop star with trendy hair—the ultimate redeeming feature. She married the baseball player in the end, thank goodness, but the fans were livid. "Nooo! She was supposed to end up with the man who humiliated her repeatedly and treated her like his personal slave! He's so much prettier than the other guy!"

This is what TV Tropes calls "Draco in Leather Pants" syndrome. Draco Malfoy from the Harry Potter books is small, mean, and arrogant. Draco Malfoy in the Harry Potter movies, played by Tom Felton, is hot-t-t-t-t. From the perspective of thousands of posters on fan fiction websites, he clearly deserves Hermione more than Ron, by virtue of his actor's superior hotness.

Speaking of fan fiction, let's talk about Fifty Shades of Grey. E. L. James was recently named the Publisher's Weekly "Publishing Person of the Year." Her erotic trilogy is hailed the Western world over for empowering women to celebrate their hidden kinkiness. And what, exactly, are her books about? A cold, ruthless business tycoon with a thirst for the "S" half of S&M taking advantage of a naïve college girl with low self-esteem. So empowering!

But oh, it isn't glorifying rape. He just likes to play at rape for the rush. And it's all cool 'cause she likes it and he really loves her. He just won't admit it!

Here's where writers and readers get confused: rape has nothing to do with love. It doesn't even have anything to do with sexual arousal. It's about pure power. It's about domination and feeling superior by manipulating victims and inflicting pain. But somehow, somewhere along the course of the 20th century, we managed to turn it into an act inspired by "uncontrollable desire."

I get that women like to feel wanted. Our desirability largely determines our social value among both sexes. According to this review article in The Observer, a publication of the Association for Psychological Science, "Mothers give more affection to attractive babies. Teachers favor more attractive students and judge them as smarter. Attractive adults get paid more for their work and have better success in dating and mating. And juries are less likely to find attractive people guilty and recommend lighter punishments when they do."

So we all want to be attractive and well-liked, with all of the benefits attached. And that's fine, until we take it as far as coming up with fantasies in which we're so lovely that we drive wealthy, handsome men to do crazy things...like rape us. I don't think I need to explain why rape isn't nearly as fun in real life as it sounds in Sweet Savage Love, or why being beaten with a belt by a man who treats you like a blow-up doll isn't nearly as romantic as E. L. James seems to think.

And you see it discussed less often, but women forcing themselves on men is just as big a problem in fiction. Raunchy comedies like Wedding Crashers and 40 Days and 40 Nights play rape for laughs; both have scenes of attractive women tying unwilling men to beds as if it's (a) funny and (b) no big deal. Even in the youth-oriented Harry Potter, teenage girls slip date rape drugs—um, I mean "love potions"—into boys' drinks with oh-so-hilarious consequences.

"But what's the big deal?" you ask. "Everyone can tell the difference between fiction and reality. The world isn't crawling with vampires and billionaire bachelors and CIA agents with psychic abilities, either, but I don't see you complaining about it."

The problem is that the "happy happy rape" dynamic is so prevalent in our fiction that it's bled into real-life attitudes and behaviors. Studies by feminists have shown that more than fifty percent of women have said "no" when they really meant "yes." And when men report being raped or harassed by women, they're guaranteed to get one or all of the following responses from loving friends and family:

• "But she's hot! What's the problem?"
• "What are you, gay?"
• "Let's be honest—you're never gonna get that lucky again."
• "Liar. That's physically impossible. You must have wanted it."

In some of my early stories, I too had unknowingly exhibited the same "rape is exciting" attitude. I'd absorbed it over a lifetime of consuming scenes in books and movies that celebrate it, like the hero's rape of Dominique "by engraved invitation" in The Fountainhead, or Mr. Rochester forcing kisses on Jane while telling her to "be still; don't struggle so, like a wild frantic bird that is rending its own plumage in its desperation." But now I make an effort to keep the tiniest hints of endorsing it out of everything I write and say. And everyone else should as well.

Over the past week or so, I spent a good chunk of time reading a graphic novel from the '90s called Ghost Hunt. The series consisted of twelve volumes of 100 pages each, or about 1200 pages. It took me 10-12 hours to read it from front to back, skipping all the introductory pages and footnotes explaining Japanese honorifics, customs, mythology, etc.

Around hour 13, I reached volume 12.1. The big finale. The teenage heroine finally learned about the hero's true identity and tragic past. She thanked him for supporting her all this time and confessed her romantic feelings for him. And then...

"That wasn't me. That was Gene. Eugene."

Say what?

So it turns out the guy the mangaka had led us to believe was the hero was actually his psychic twin, who was brutally murdered but hung around to be the heroine's spiritual guide as she helped out the brother he'd left behind. And then the authorities found his rotten corpse in a lake, so he moved on to the other world and they never met again.

The End.

Boy was I ticked. There was no mention of this twin at all until the last bits of volume 12. The subtle hints littered throughout the previous 1100 pages that this guy might not be who the heroine thought he was didn't make me feel better—they made me feel even more cheated because the author clearly intended to pull the rug out from under the readers from the get-go. It also didn't help any that she named the dead hero-impersonator Eugene.

What's the difference between a twist that satisfies and one that makes people angry? I don't claim to be an expert, but here are some of my theories.

Genre

Dark twists are expected in crime, mystery, horror, and psychological thriller type novels. In fact, if you don't have an unforeseen twist at the end of your murder mystery, people will be terribly disappointed. There are also conventional twists in "happy" novels like comedies, YA, and romances: it turns out the rogue vigilante and the handsome young nobleman are the same person, or the orphan is the long-lost heir of a wealthy family, or the childhood friend the heroine has been searching for has been beside her all along.

Problems arise when you crisscross the dark and light twists to the wrong genres. A romance novel in which the hero turns out to be the serial killer who slaughtered the heroine's family in cold blood would not go over well. Neither would a hard-boiled mystery in which the murder victim strolls in during the big reveal to tell everyone she's fine and there was no foul play; some Pepsi just went down the wrong pipe. So that's it then. Time to pack up and go home.

Characters

Readers want good things to happen to good characters and bad things to happen to bad characters. They will temporarily put up with bad things happening to good characters and good things happening to bad characters as long as it's all straightened out in the end. They will also make exceptions if they went into the story expecting everyone to end up miserable, like in film noir, melodramas, and tearjerkers.

Now what happens when you lead readers to believe that the protagonists they're rooting for will have happy endings, but then you backpedal at the last second? The other day I convinced Sweetie to watch the 2010 version of True Grit with me. He was happy with it right up until the last ten minutes. Then the horse got shot, Mattie lost an arm and grew up into a bitter old witch, and Cogburn died off-screen.

There had been plenty of death and destruction before that, but the overall tone was darkly comedic. The characters were sharp and fun and charismatic even when they were bickering; you never doubted that they would get their man and ride off triumphant into the sunset. But those last ten minutes killed the mood completely. It's like the screenwriters tacked on an epilogue to say, "We know y'all like to have hope and love and adventure in life, but it's all meaningless. You'll just die alone in obscurity. Cheers." Sweetie was not pleased. In fact, I'd be surprised if he ever lets me put on a Western again.

Morals

In the case of True Grit, if the screenwriters/director/Coen brothers/whoever wanted to teach the lesson that a thirst for vengeance just breeds more pain and suffering, they should have made a different movie entirely. You can't write a story that is 99% about pursuing justice, but then 1% about the repercussions of violence, and expect people to be happy with it. The morals of a story should fit with the way it's told and vice versa.

When you're coming up with your morals, you have to keep your audience in mind. The audience of romances wants to see the moral that if you have a sweet, spunky personality and pretty hair, men will trip over themselves to marry you. The audiences of horror novels and thrillers want the moral that there is no universal justice or salvation, and you have to fight for yourself or die trying. If you want to put in twists, they have to be consistent with these expectations. Romance and YA readers like twists that reward the good and punish the bad; readers with darker tastes like twists that up the stakes and the adrenaline. Subvert them at your peril.

The point of writing twists is not to defy expectations. The point is to fulfill expectations for intrigue and excitement. If done properly, a twist shouldn't feel like a twist at all. It should feel like the natural conclusion of the story, not like something you came up with just to throw everyone off and pat yourself on the back for being clever.