I’m currently re-reading the first three books in The
Stormlight Archive, a series of epic fantasy novels by Brandon Sanderson,
in preparation for the fourth and newest volume, Rhythm of War. Its
expected release date is November 17. These are big door-stopper novels coming
in somewhere between 1,200 and 1,300 pages each. Just the way I like them. But
as far as my astute and observant eyes can tell, I’m in the minority here in
several ways. Firstly, I read and own actual books – hardcovers and paperbacks
alike, rather than downloading content on an Amazon Kindle or some other
e-reader. Furthermore, I don’t know a lot of people who read fantasy (I can
count the friends who do so on one hand), and of those who are
interested, many prefer a much less daunting and comfortable page count of 300-700
pages, or thereabouts.
I’m just glad to know that I have friends who are fans of
the genre. It’s something that, as both a reader and aspiring author, I find
myself surreptitiously looking for in people – trying to discern their reading
habits and their fiction genres of choice. I live with an older roommate who is
an avid reader, though much of his personal library is political non-fiction or
history, with a few science books and perhaps a handful of mystery novels
thrown into the mix. A coworker of mine likes political history and philosophy,
though he will also enjoy graphic novels and some of the more popular fantasy
novels; he even has a friend who has self-published a short book in the genre.
If I look beyond people in my immediate orbit, such as musicians and artists
who I closely follow, I’m always pleased to see Cristina Scabbia of Lacuna Coil
reading Batman or Star Wars comics, or Brittney Slayes of Unleash
the Archers reading The Witcher series.
Fantasy is one of the most important – and simultaneously
one of the most disregarded – forms of literary fiction. More than that, it’s
one of the most influential cultural underpinnings of Western society. Our very
language has been shaped by countless decades of epic tales; the word “muggle”
has now officially entered the Oxford English Dictionary, and “dracarys” (High
Valyrian for “fire”) is remembered and known by a wide range of people. Is
there anyone who doesn’t know what a Hobbit is? Or a Jedi? Or Excalibur? Maybe
that one weird uncle you have who binge-watches The Weather Channel and likes
to show everyone his stamp collection. But different strokes for different folks.
Hell, as the proliferation of epic fantasy continues to migrate onto streaming
platforms like Netflix and Prime, more people will know what a Mandalorian is,
and be well acquainted with the term Witcher.
Still, there are many out there who find the genre to be
crass, uncouth; the stuff of childish pastimes. Some stuffed shirts, scholars,
and others with a myopic, clinical worldview might tell you to put the toys
away and grow up. It’s a flawed stereotype that outsiders have regarding zealous
adherents to fantasy fandoms. To them, a comic convention or a Magic: The
Gathering game night is not a pop culturally charged campfire around which
friends can bond and share their joy in captivating fictional worlds, but
rather, something silly and foolish – a collection of supposed man-children
abandoning the stifling beleaguerment of drink-the-Kool-Aid-academia and
exhaustive political squabble. When the truth is, fantasy has long been among
the cornerstones of popular culture, consumed and appreciated by men, women,
and children alike.
And yet, the naysayers continue their diatribes, sometimes
even from within the very circle of fantasy authorship itself. In a recent
interview, Watchmen creator Alan Moore derided superhero comics and
films (presumably with the exception of his own because it’s like, you know,
postmodern and sociopolitically conscious). Moore claimed that superhero films
in particular have “blighted culture,” that they should be for children, and
that attempts to make them palatable to or directed toward adults are “grotesque.”
What Moore failed to address, and what he should very well know, is that from
the 1930s to the 1950s, many comic books were extremely violent, and certainly
not the stuff of childhood consumption. Many did not cease being dark and
gritty until the advent of the Comics Code Authority, which censored and
effectively ended that Golden Age of Comics, reducing superheroes to relatively
innocent, youth-targeted do-gooders, rather than the morally and
philosophically complex character studies they would become a few decades
later.
You see, despite the integrity, intellectualism, and
narrative brilliance that so many fantasy works offer, there remains a certain
portion of society that looks upon it with disgust or embarrassment. Yet many
of them secretly crave much of what fantasy stories contain – it’s simply that,
for whatever reason, the aesthetics and many of the actual components of what
make fantasy, well, fantasy, are just too much for them to absorb. I don’t
think it’s even so much a case of people not being able to suspend their disbelief;
rather, I think there’s something about it that just makes them feel as though
they’re doing something wrong. I think it also has something to do with people’s
perceptions of their own reputations. I notice that people in academic circles,
or those who have careers in very real, material areas such as law or medicine…these
people in particular seem to regard the elements of a fantasy narrative as
something not to be indulged in openly, or else something that would render them
socially weird or out of place, like a businessman happily walking the streets
with an untied shoe.
Of those who do consume fantasy but don’t wear it on
their sleeve, and seem to feel almost guilty after tuning into an episode of Game
of Thrones, or pushing aside Steinbeck and Hemingway in exchange for
Tolkien and Martin, they almost always call the genre as a whole “escapism.”
For some, it’s a way to separate and compartmentalize the genre, so that it won’t
somehow break free of those constraints and bleed into other areas of their
lives. For others, it’s a defense mechanism, a way to justify their joy of it
while maintaining a carefully crafted outward image of apparent maturity and
sophistication. “I may read The Lord of the Rings or watch The Empire
Strikes Back on occasion – you know, they’re cute little stories,” said Mr.
Bourgeois, sniffing importantly. “But I’d much rather watch this Saturday Night
Live clip where celebrities make fun of politicians for the 500th time, than to
be caught dead at Comic-Con.”
Here’s why “escapism” – whether used as pejorative or a simple
label with no malicious intent – is inaccurate. Fantasy, like any other genre
of speculative fiction, does not exist in a vacuum, and to say that indulging
in its narratives is a way of somehow escaping or ignoring reality, is to imply
that it does. Actually, much like the logo on your t-shirt, the drink in your
glass, and the houseplant near your window, there were and always will be
demonstrable, material preconditions for all works of fiction, no matter how
fantastical. An author's work is the product of a multitude of internal
cognitive processes and external influences, all thrown together like so many
ingredients in some grand recipe, cooked in a stew of inspiration and wonder,
and thrown onto paper to whet the appetites of enthusiastic readers who have
just finished destroying the One Ring on Mount Doom and are now looking for
their next mental and emotional adventure.
A single fantasy novel was shaped by – and in turn, will
also shape – events and fundamental aspects of the real world that you and I
live in. No matter how many dragons there are, every spark of every idea comes
from the life and world that we actively live in and engage with. To categorize
it as somehow different, or in an area all its own where we must only visit
fleetingly, and with nervous glances at anyone who we fear might condemn our “unrefined
tastes” (re: lack of pretentiousness), is to practice absurdity. Fantasy is
owed a high position among the great influential elements of the arts – after all,
it was one of the first genres ever written. Ask Odysseus, or Gilgamesh, or
Macbeth. Ask God.
Finally, though, it seems that fantasy is getting its due. I
can’t put much stock in my personal hope that more people will turn to fantasy
literature – or literature in general, but I can attest to the growing
dominance of the genre in television and film. Though television itself is an
increasingly outdated term – again, in recent years when it comes to popular
fantasy, Netflix, Amazon, and the like are on the tip of everyone’s tongues. So
why, then, as the genre spirals its way to an epic crescendo of fandom, do just
as many people seem to be getting their backs up against the wall about the
whole thing? Perhaps it’s because they’ve been trained to turn instead to its
polar opposite: Epic reality. Now, perhaps more than ever, we are all slammed
with reality – on every smartphone, every computer or tablet screen, and in nearly
every conversation.
You can’t open Facebook or YouTube without becoming an
unwilling participant in the 24/7 news cycle – stories of the worst aspects of
humanity come to fruition flooding your home page. Another mass shooting. More
people than ever falling to poverty and homelessness. The pandemic and all the
lives it’s claimed. These are all important things – we must stay informed and
vigilant, now perhaps more than ever before. But we used to consume our news in
an hour, maybe two, per day – staying educated and apprised of the problems and
the tragedies by necessity, but not spending six hours a day wringing our hands
over every single aspect of every single horrible thing, and then proceeding to
argue endlessly with anonymous people online who we’ll never meet about the
very things we now live in ceaseless stress and fear over.
How many times do our minds switch off and we scroll,
dead-eyed, through the same news feed we just scrolled through, re-reading the
same news byte, replaying the same video clip, that we saw five times already?
What further knowledge can we gain by plumming every corner of every social
media app for every perspective, argument, and/or retelling of every piece of
news? Interspersed, of course, with well placed ads for Burrito Blankets and
Dill Pickle-Flavored Lip Balm. Conspicuous consumption much? We are seemingly
engaged in a constant, neverending stream of Non-Fiction, but the plot is cliché
and repetitive, the featured characters are plutocrats and tyrants with whom
the reader cannot possibly empathize, and all the death scenes are tasteless,
tragic, and far too close to home.
When people want to distance themselves with that, they go
and Keep Up with the Kardashians or watch people make really bad 90-day
marriage decisions for money. Ah, yes, reality TV. The pinnacle of
entertainment. If only Shakespeare had put aside those silly plays and scribed
breathtaking narratives about the day-to-day goings on regarding the people in
his social circle. What did Bethilda really mean when she made that
offhanded remark about Mafalda’s elderberry pie? And will Isaiah find out about
Esmerelda’s torrid affair with Nathaniel? Now, if he had written epic reality
works like that, he’d really have been on to something. Look, I’m neither
condemning these types of shows nor denying people their right to indulge in
them as they please. But for this to become one of the hallmarks of our current
zeitgeist, in which people commend these shows while in the same breath mocking
shows with superheroes or dragons…is it really so much to ask that people
reassess their views on fantasy?
I can’t deny that there isn’t some inherent bias on my part.
It’s been my life’s goal to write and publish a series of epic fantasy novels,
something I’m still working diligently on. In the meanwhile, I’ve probably
become “that guy” who’s “always writing that one novel he’s been working on for
15 years.” But slow and steady wins the race. Regardless, I think that if
people just give the genre another try (it’s growing and evolving in some
amazing directions these days, The Stormlight Archive being one fine
example), they might be surprised at what they find. And then – dare I suggest
it – perhaps it’s okay to take a little pride in your love for these stories.
In these times of social distancing, maybe we can adopt the Vulcan hand salute
in place of a handshake? “Live long and prosper” is a phrase anyone can get
behind. Or you can continue to keep your copy of A Dance With Dragons
beneath your pillow for late night reading. I won’t tell if you won’t.
