Back in university, I had a film professor whose passion was environmentalism. Though she was kind and well-meaning, she wasn’t profoundly interested in film as an art. She valued it as a vector for poignant storytelling, as fiction used to embellish nonfiction. When my friend and I proposed an idea for a short film about students on campus spontaneously acquiring superpowers, she looked down upon us with disappointment in her eyes.
“You have the power of film at your disposal, and you want to use it for that?” she said.
The words were branded onto my brain matter. I felt embarrassed and ashamed for how excited I’d been for the superhero idea. Still, I couldn’t imagine writing anything else. She suggested we create a nonfiction news piece, and though we were uninspired and crestfallen, my team and I agreed.
Years later, this memory resurfaced. In its new incarnation, it was much louder and much crueler. After dreaming of a career in the publishing industry for so long, I finally felt ready to prop open my laptop and toil away at a first draft. I had a story that poured liquid light through my spirit, and a million ideas for how it could expand. This world, this pocket dimension, had become a second home to me, and I wanted nothing more than to immortalize it with words. I wanted a forever portal to my own intergalactic romance, complete with star fairies, secret agents, action, humor, and fun.
Just as I began, my keyboard practically glowing in anticipation, my fingers froze, startled by a thunderous voice from the void. “You have the power of writing at your disposal, and you want to use it for that?” it seethed.
The world’s crushing weight accumulated on my shoulders. To become a writer was to take the same path walked by legends like George Orwell, Ursula LeGuin, Margaret Atwood, Aldous Huxley, and Ray Bradbury. With their works, they changed the world. They brought poignant social issues to light, kicking off rebellions and igniting flames of cultural evolution. They were spectacular heralds of knowledge and wisdom, using fiction as a cleverly concealed weapon of truth.
In many ways, I believe these authors were guided by a question that’s haunted me as eagerly as the one asked by my film professor. “Why this story, why now?” When it was first asked of me, it was meant to be a source of inspiration, yet it only filled me with dread. Orwell, LeGuin, Atwood, Huxley, and Bradbury would have had their answers in an instant, but I’ve never been able to conjure one of my own.
My key to writing is fun. It’s always been fun, and I’m convinced it will always be fun. I write to explore, to expand, and to experience. I write to shape shift and to surrender to imaginative chaos. I write because it severs the shackle that binds my soul to my flesh, and that freedom is pure, effervescent bliss.
Spiraling questions from artists with different routes to creativity whirled around my head. I saw the look of disheartened judgement from my film professor every time I closed my eyes. I’ve always written for fun, but is fun enough? Should I be using this impactful medium to craft something greater than me? If my story doesn’t have a profound intention, is it worth writing? Sharing?
I panicked, gazing at my outline for a cosmic romance with gradually intensifying doubt. Why this story, why now? Why this story, why now? Why this story, why now? My inner voice, once so proud and confident, sheepishly mumbled back, “Because I love it, and because I want to write it now. Because it’s an adventure, and I want to go on an adventure. Because it’s freedom, and I want to feel free.”
“Not enough!” a resentful agent of self-criticism barked. Defeated, I closed my laptop.
A Great Realization
To self-soothe, I flocked to the media that has always been a consistent source of comfort: science fiction and fantasy novels, films, and television shows. Feeling at home within faraway worlds, I disappeared into Middle Earth, Knowhere, and Arrakis. I lost (and found) myself in Prythian, Valenda, and Elfhame. In my time of need, these sacred places gave me what nothing else could.
You’d think I’d have run to YouTube, Masterclass, or Skillshare for writing advice. According to my professor’s mindset, I should have gone to nonfictional to bask in the glow and glory of writers before me. Feeling depressed and disempowered, I could have watched a film about the plight of artists belonging to marginalized communities to find kinship. Sadly, I’ve tried all this before, and it only ever left me feeling more hopeless.
When I needed hope, I went to fiction. Not symbolic fiction, cautionary fiction, or fiction laced with social commentary. As much as I appreciate and admire those pieces, what I truly wanted was to feel whispers of childlike delight. In that delight, I wanted to find a road back home, a path back to my truest and most authentic self.
These brilliant artists had the power of writing at their disposal, and through their boundless creativity and unfettered fun, they used it to weave worlds teeming with comfort, healing, happiness and hope for readers like me. Why these stories, and why now? Because they simply wanted to, and in that wanting, they created things of beauty.
Some of the highest grossing novels and films of all time do almost nothing to spark profound thought or set off change. They are the works that prioritize the inner child, reactivating a lost sense of play. With just enough complexity to occupy the adult mind, they offer interesting conflicts and characters to unravel. However, at their core, they are imaginative quests that coax our younger selves out from the shadows.
Think The Lord of the Rings, Game of Thrones, X-Men, The Avengers, and Star Wars. These are works in which characters ride dragons, adorn wizard costumes, wield swords of light, and fight in colorful spandex. They aren’t gritty, hyper-realistic portrayals of our own dreary reality. They aren’t documentaries, self-help stories, or memoirs. They are complex, wonderful tales told with maturity and prowess while also embracing fun, play, and imagination. They are highly profitable, but profit isn’t what I’m highlighting. The billions they’ve amassed are a direct result of the joy they’ve brought to the world. The creators had fun creating them, and thus, we have fun interacting with them.
The Hidden Change-Makers
Ironically enough, I’ve found these types of stories to be unintentionally poignant when it comes to changing the world. Sometimes, they’re even more impactful than the stories that try so desperately to be so. While they aren’t as forthright as Orwell’s 1984, they do a spectacular job of exploring important issues through a more imaginative and accessible lens.
I believe humans learn and grow best through play. Truly, I feel I develop more in situations where fun is a factor. In grammar school, I got more insight into life, love, and my own passions in classes where I was never bored. In boring classes, I checked out completely, and in place of a forty-minute lesson, I’d be left with nothing but a void.
This is how I tend to feel about novels, films, and television shows that outwardly attempt to teach me something. As important as it is, I’ve never been able to get through The Grapes of Wrath. All of its powerful, pivotal messages have been lost to me, because I can’t even get through the Spark Notes. The Hunger Games, on the other hand, lured my inner child in with it’s explosive action, lush world building, and gripping romance. My adult self ruminates regularly on Suzanne Collins’s incredible commentary on violence, classism, corruption and wealth disparity. I was able to fully receive this knowledge, these prompts for critical thought and social change, because of how it was packaged.
Regardless, I still believe that the social commentary found in works like the Captain America films, the Star Wars franchise, and even the Dune series arise in an almost subconscious way. They aren’t forced to the foreground; they are drizzled over the narratives like powdered sugar on a doughnut. They ask the audience to consider things, prompting expansive critical thought instead of just presenting a black-and-white argument. It makes the experience, and the personal development gained through it, all the more engaging and efficacious.
In this world, there are good things, and there are bad things. There are kind things, and there are cruel things. However, being told what is right and what is wrong isn’t nearly as powerful as discovering it personally. Of course, I could read a book about how terrible classism is. However, it hits a lot harder when a character I’ve come to love and care for over the course of an immersive, imaginative story is subjected to it.
Don’t Write (Or Live) In Servitude
All of that said, I still believe we should always write in service to ourselves, first and foremost. When you write for you, you create something you cherish, admire, and enjoy. In creating something you cherish, admire, and enjoy, you inspire the same emotions in those who read your work. It’s like a mirror.
Often, I think creatives feel a misplaced sense of guilt. Art made for the self is indulgent and lovingly selfish. It feels a bit like reverently laying flowers on the altar of one’s own inner sovereignty. To write for fun is to worship in the temple of the inner child. In a world built on exploitation of labor, a world that rewards self-sacrifice to a harmful degree, this doesn’t fly.
“Why this story, why now?” takes on a whole new meaning when you consider who is asking such a question, and dare I say, why they are asking it. Why are you writing this story, and how does it serve others? Does this story have any monetary value right now? Will this story empty bank accounts and fill pockets? People who put forth these notions are trying to turn creativity into capitalism. In a capitalist system, profit is more important than product, and thus the product must always serve the pursuit of profit. It convinces us, as human beings, that because we exist, we are indentured servants to existence. We must work to earn our worth, and create things of “value” to prove it. So many spend their entire lives chasing the approval of some unseen council, betraying their authentic selves in the process.
“You have the power of writing at your disposal, and you want to use it for that?”
I have the power of writing at my disposal, and I don’t want to use it at all. It isn’t a tool to be manipulated or a weapon to be wielded. It is access to worlds unseen, universes untraveled. I venture to them to create joy and exhilaration in my life. In turn, I hope my annotated adventures open portals for others, igniting the same sunshine in their lives as they’ve ignited in mine.
It isn’t servitude, it’s secret happinesses shared.
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