497. TMTF’s Top Ten Posts I’m Glad I Wrote

Posted on December 19, 2016 by Adam Stück

TMTF is almost done. Today seems like a good day to glance back at some of this blog’s better posts—and to squeeze in one last top ten list, of course. Top tens are my beat!

To paraphrase Strong Bad, “My blog posts are like my childrens. I love them all!”

Wait, no—that’s not right. I love some of my blog posts. Others are frankly pretty bad. Then there are a shining few that have a special place in my heart. These personal posts allowed me to discover something about myself, cope with life’s difficulties, or create something meaningful.

These are the posts I’m glad I wrote.

I’m about to get personal, ladies and gentlemen, as TMTF presents…

The TMTF List of Top Ten Posts I’m Glad I Wrote!

10. Goodbye, Beatrice

I always supposed that at some point I would grow up and stop having crushes on pretty girls, but I never did. (I think I may have I failed the whole growing-up thing.) One or two of my romantic crushes lasted for years and years, gathering many what-ifs and regrets. This post was my attempt to let them go. It was cathartic to write.

Like Dante, I wrote about my crush; unlike Dante, I wrote a quick blog post, not an epic poem of enduring brilliance.

I was reading Dante’s Inferno at the time. Dante’s lifelong crush on Beatrice mirrored my own situation, and I’m really satisfied with how this post tied together our stories.

9. The Infinity Manuscript

Little-known fact: Back in 2012, as my ill-fated novel ground slowly toward publication, I wrote a fantasy novella titled The Infinity Manuscript. (This was years before I knew of Marvel’s upcoming Infinity War movies; I wasn’t trying to steal their title, I swear!) This tale of loss and determination has its fair share of flaws, yet showcased some cool ideas and a plot twist of which I’m quite proud.

The Infinity Manuscript had a desert, maybe? Hey, I wrote it a long time ago!

I haven’t read The Infinity Manuscript in years, but remain fond of it. Who knows? I may resurrect the story someday and write it properly. Even if I don’t, The Infinity Manuscript brought me many hours of writing practice, along with some creative satisfaction.

8. Working on Self-Respect

Writing this post led me to discover an important and practical truth: Self-esteem is a feeling, but self-respect is a choice.

I choose to respect this guy. For some reason.

I have a fairly low opinion of myself. The past four or five years dealt my self-confidence some devastating blows: my career plans failed, my dream project failed, and my faith sometimes seems to be failing. This post reminded me that maintaining a sense of self-worth is not only possible, but worthwhile.

7. Lance Eliot Is Dead

Speaking of my dream project, this is the post in which I announced its failure. I declared Lance Eliot dead. The failure of my debut novel, The Trials of Lance Eliot, took away my incentive to work on its sequels. I was already committed to this blog, trapped in a toxic job situation, and struggling through a darker chapter of my life. I couldn’t keep writing Lance’s story, but felt guilty abandoning it.

It was hard to let this one go.

In the end, I let it go. This post represents one of the best decisions I ever made. Giving up Lance’s story took away a lot of stress and worry… and allowed me, years later, to resurrect it without the baggage of earlier failures. I don’t know whether I’ll ever finish the Lance Eliot saga, but thanks to this post, I’m free to try again from the beginning.

6. Jerks, Trolls and Other Hazards of the Internet

Not many people celebrate Be Nice to Someone on the Internet Day, and with good reason—I made it up on a whim. This annual event, held on March 4, encourages everyone to send an encouraging message to someone on the Internet.

I like to think that all Internet trolls are actually cave trolls with laptops.

An earlier post introduced the concept of Be Nice to Someone on the Internet Day, but this post inaugurated it properly and confirmed March 4 as its official date. Ever since, I’ve promoted and observed the event every year, and plan to continue doing so long after this blog is dust and ashes.

5. Adam’s Story: The Characters

Since resurrecting the Lance Eliot saga, all I’ve accomplished so far is some story planning—but good gosh, after this post, am I ever excited to start writing! Characters are my favorite element of storytelling. Reimagining Lance Eliot and other characters for my story project is easily the most fun I’ve had working on a story in years.

I can’t wait to write about this guy.

This post is extra-special thanks to terrific concept art from Sabina Kipa and JK Riki: artists whose skills were matched by their patience and positivity. When I write, it helps me to visualize scenes and characters, and this post’s character portraits have been helpful as I’ve worked on story planning.

4. An Evil Scientist Explains Band Names

I wanted to put a Geeky Wednesday post on this list, but it was hard to choose just one. For years, Geeky Wednesdays were my way of pointing at cool things and saying, “Look at this thing! Ain’t it cool?” These (typically) shorter, shallower posts bridged the gap between this blog’s “serious” posts on Mondays and Fridays. (I put “serious” in quotes because TMTF was hardly ever serious.)

Doofenshmirtz is my Patronus.

In the end, I chose the very first Geeky Wednesday post. It inaugurated one of this blog’s most enduring features, and I’m glad it did. Besides, Dr. Heinz Doofenshmirtz is probably one of the greatest television characters of all time, and definitely one of the funniest.

3. I Believe

I wrote this post during a particularly rough week last month. A number of unrelated struggles and uncertainties troubled me deeply at the time. Quite by accident, I managed to weave them all together in a post that was not merely coherent, but among the best I have ever written.

This post was far more coherent than it had any right to be.

In the end, by some miracle of God, a post that should have been a train wreck became something structured, meaningful, and deeply cathartic to write. When I finished this post, I felt like a weight had been lifted off my chest. I consider it one of my best. It certainly helped me to write it.

2. Marching Home

This post is a eulogy for my late friend Nick. I was reluctant to put it on this list, fearing the list might cheapen it, but finally decided that it belongs here. This list is for posts I’m glad I wrote. I’m glad I wrote this one.

This scene still brings tears to my eyes.

When Nick passed away last year, I felt emotionally numb. Writing his eulogy helped me come to terms with his death, and allowed me to tell the story of our friendship. I tried to honor Nick’s memory by writing this post. Whether or not I succeeded, writing it helped me to grieve. Healing started here.

1. I Nearly Left My Faith Last Year

This was a surprisingly easy post to write, but hitting the Publish button took some nerve. After struggling with profound religious doubts for more than a year, I finally acknowledged them publicly. I told my story. Whether or not anyone listened, and however they replied, I felt calmer and lighter for telling it.

I haven’t given up yet, and neither has he.

Quite a number of people listened. They replied with compassion and understanding. I felt less alone. Of all the posts on this blog, this is the one I’m gladdest I wrote.

I’m glad I wrote these posts, and do you know what else? I’m glad people read them. Thanks for reading, guys. You are the best thing about this blog.

486. Adam’s Story: The Themes

Posted on November 4, 2016 by Adam Stück

For anyone new to Adam’s story, here’s an introduction.

Every story means something. Patterns of meaning are called themes, and give stories greater depth and significance. The meaning of a story can be obvious, ambiguous, or deviously difficult to pin down. Heck, some people devote their entire lives to figuring out what stories mean; their profession is known as literary criticism, and it’s often a strange one.

Themes have a way of creeping into stories, insidious and ninja-like, sometimes without the author noticing. As I worked on previous versions of the Lance Eliot saga, I began to see motifs and patterns that I hadn’t planned. I was able to develop only a couple of them. It was too late to explore the rest.

I’m planning to rewrite the Lance Eliot saga from the beginning, which will allow me to explore its ideas more deliberately.

Here are four themes I plan to develop as I rewrite The Trials of Lance Eliot, the first part of my story.

Purpose

Lance Eliot’s journey to the fantastical kingdom of Guardia is apparently a pointless mix-up. He was summoned instead of Lancelot, the legendary knight of Camelot, due to a careless mistake. Now he’s stranded in Guardia, torn between amazement and annoyance, and convinced his journey is meaningless.

Is it?

I preceded an earlier version of the Lance Eliot story with these words from Geoffrey Chaucer: “Alas, why is it common to complain of God or Fortune, who so often deign, hiding their foresight under many a guise, to give us better than we could devise?”

Is there a greater purpose behind Lance’s adventure, or is he struggling against the aimless workings of a blind universe?

Anything out there?

I believe every story means something, but Lance isn’t so sure.

Before his journey to Guardia, Lance studies literary criticism for one of his college courses. He doesn’t take it seriously. Literary criticism appears to invent meaning where there is none. Like the dishonest tailors in “The Emperor’s New Clothes,” it points out things that aren’t really there.

Is anything there? Is there any meaning or purpose in the universe? Lance doesn’t know, and his unexpected adventure sure isn’t helping.

Overcoming self-destructive tendencies

At first, Lance Eliot is not brave, selfless, or virtuous. As a matter of fact, he is cowardly, selfish, and pessimistic. He also has a drinking problem. Lance is a far cry from Lancelot, the pure-hearted hero.

Lance Eliot, our… hero?

Tsurugi is broken. Once a legendary soldier, he is now a war criminal, working for a rogue general as an alternative to execution. Tsurugi seems to have given up on everything: his nation, his future, and his soul.

Paz gave up a quiet life to wander the kingdom as a professional gambler. Her miraculous luck has brought her a lot of money, but luxuries as friends and family are more than she can afford. Paz travels alone, homeless, always on the defensive… and her luck is bound to run out someday.

In their own ways, these unlikely traveling companions have given up on their lives, and given in to self-destructive tendencies. Guardia faces annihilation. If our heroes want to prevent the kingdom’s destruction, they’ll have to start by preventing their own.

Peace

Guardia is a kingdom of glass. It exists in a delicate balance, suspended between two warlike empires, keeping a fragile peace. Its strong navy and military, along with its defensible borders, are all that prevent Guardia from becoming a battleground for its powerful neighbors: a kingdom reduced to blood and ashes.

Paz was named for this peace. She has spent years traveling across Guardia, and doesn’t want to see it trampled by armies. Peace can’t last forever. What will happen when it fails?

Yeah, probably.

Three of the story’s main characters, mentioned above, are searching for a different kind of peace. Lance wants to find meaning or purpose in life. Tsurugi lives in a haze of grief. Paz is restless and unfulfilled. Other characters, whom I won’t mention yet, look for peace in darker places.

If I finish the Lance Eliot saga, perhaps I’ll find a little peace of my own. Here’s hoping.

The Divine Comedy

Around the time I began working on the Lance Eliot saga in earnest, I read Dante’s Divine Comedy for the first time. I couldn’t help but notice some similarities, and decided to make them deliberate.

The first part of my story, The Trials of Lance Eliot, shall roughly parallel Inferno, which chronicles Dante’s journey through hell.

Y’know, Dante doesn’t look very heroic, either.

I hope to hit a lot of the same beats: the dark wood, Beatrice’s early influence, Virgil’s guidance, the final encounter with the Devil, and the escape to safety beneath starry skies. As its title suggests, The Trials of Lance Eliot will put its hapless protagonist through hell.

National Novel Writing Month just started, and while I’m not participating this year, it reminds me of a painful truth: The Lance Eliot saga is going to take a lot of work. Lance won’t be the only one struggling! As long as I’m on the subjects of hell and writing, I’ll conclude with a quote I’ve seen floating around the Internet:

Pretty much.

479. TMTF’s Top Ten Detectives in Fiction

Posted on October 10, 2016 by Adam Stück

Who are the greatest detectives in fiction? I’m no sleuth, but this is one mystery I might be able to solve.

From a young age, I’ve enjoyed detective fiction. I watched Scooby-Doo cartoons as a young child. Almost immediately after learning to read, I devoured stacks of Hardy Boys books. I read the entire Sherlock Holmes canon in my early teens, and picked up a number of classic mysteries in college. Yes, I love a good detective story.

Of course, such a story is only as good as its detective. Here are ten of my favorite mystery-solvers, because top ten lists are my beat.

The game is afoot, ladies and gentlemen, as TMTF presents…

The TMTF List of Top Ten Detectives in Fiction!

10. C. Auguste Dupin

Although C. Auguste Dupin appeared in only three short stories, he makes history as one of the earliest fictional detectives. When Edgar Allan Poe created Dupin, the word detective had not even been coined. Heck, the character is even mentioned in the very first Sherlock Holmes story: Watson compares Holmes to Dupin. Sherlock Holmes may be the father of detective fiction, but C. August Dupin is its grandfather. The character’s sharp intellect and analytical methods helped create an archetype for fictional detectives.

9. Batman

I was going to put Hercule Poirot on this list, but then remembered that I’ve read only two of his mysteries, and disliked one of them. Who could possibly replace the legendary Poirot, created by the legendary Agatha Christie, in a list of great detectives? The correct answer is Batman. (The correct answer is always Batman.) When he isn’t busy punching bad guys or brooding over his tragic past, Batman earns his nickname of World’s Greatest Detective by dabbling in forensics, solving crimes, and catching bad guys… whom he generally punches before brooding some more. Batman’s gotta Batman.

8. Lord Peter Wimsey

Lord Peter Wimsey has the intelligence of a detective like Holmes or Poirot, along with his own gift: an easygoing sense of humor. In a series of novels and short stories by Dorothy Sayers, this British nobleman makes a hobby of solving crimes. Wimsey’s relationship with his valet, the solemn and hyper-competent Bunter, echoes the partnership of Jeeves and Wooster in the stories by P.G. Wodehouse—and believe me, any comparison to Wodehouse is a good thing. Wimsey has all the skill of other famous detectives, and a heck of a lot more charm.

7. Professor Hershel Layton

Hershel Layton, the star of the Professor Layton games, wears many hats… figuratively speaking. (The only literal hat he would ever deign to wear is his beloved topper.) Layton is not only a professor of archaeology, but also a puzzle enthusiast, true gentleman, and amateur detective. Even inspectors from Scotland Yard have sought Layton’s help with tough cases. The strangeness of these mysteries is matched only by his ingenuity in solving them. The good Professor is clever and kind, and have I mentioned his magnificent hat?

6. Shawn Spencer

Shawn Spencer, the star of television’s Psych, is a “psychic detective” who handles cases too small, sensitive, or just plain weird for the police. Shawn’s alleged psychic powers are actually a front for rigorous training and a photographic memory. Since he’s an immature goofball, his clients find it easier to believe that Shawn has supernatural gifts than to accept that he’s just, y’know, really smart. He runs his detective agency with the help of his friend Gus; their chemistry is easily the best thing about the show, though Shawn’s quips and pop culture references are also a lot of fun.

5. Dick Gumshoe

Dick Gumshoe, the hapless police detective from the Ace Attorney games, is easily the least competent sleuth on this list, but he gets the job done. (His musical leitmotif, which I wish were my own theme music, is aptly titled “I Can Do It When It Counts, Pal!”) What Gumshoe lacks in smarts, he makes up in dedication, tenacity, and fierce loyalty to his friends. There’s a heart of gold under that shabby coat, and a determination behind those bewildered eyes to see justice done. It’s just a shame he can’t afford any meal more expensive than ramen noodles!

4. Edogawa Conan

Kudo Shinichi is still in high school, but has already built a reputation as a crime-solving prodigy who has worked with the Tokyo police. However, when he interferes with a criminal syndicate known as the Black Organization, its attempt to murder him with an experimental drug causes an unexpected side effect: Shinichi awakens in the body of a child. Now calling himself Edogawa Conan, he moves into a local detective agency, and solves its cases from behind the scenes as he searches for a lead on the Black Organization. The manga and anime series Detective Conan (known as Case Closed in the West) boasts some of the cleverest mysteries I’ve ever seen, all solved by this adorable little guy. Edogawa Conan is cooler than an action hero and cuter than a kitten—often at the same time!

3. Adrian Monk

Adrian Monk is afraid of dentists, snakes, nudity, elevators, death, milk, and mushrooms, not necessarily in that order. These are just a few of his phobias, which, along with his obsessive-compulsive disorder, make it hard for the star of television’s Monk even to leave his home, let alone solve crimes… yet he solves them. Monk’s phobias make for terrific comedy, but also create a character whose strength lies in overcoming his worst fears every single day. Adrian Monk is the rare character who can make you laugh in one scene, only to turn on a dime and make you cry in the next.

2. Father Brown

He may not have claimed the top spot on this list, but Father Brown is probably my all-time favorite character in fiction. This gentle Roman Catholic priest stars in a number of short stories by G.K. Chesterton. I’ve already written about Father Brown: “He’s a perfect foil to Sherlock Holmes . . . Everyone expects Holmes to be brilliant. In a charming subversion, everyone dismisses Father Brown as a superstitious simpleton, which makes it all the more satisfying when he apologetically solves the mystery right under their noses.” Father Brown’s quiet brilliance, boundless compassion, and no-nonsense worldview make him not only a great detective, but something rarer and more admirable: a good man.

1. Sherlock Holmes

Throughout this blog post, I’ve repeatedly mentioned Sherlock Holmes. How could I not? Sherlock Holmes is the world’s most famous detective, and the standard by which all others are measured. His ruthless logic, unshakable calm, numerous connections, and eclectic talents make him capable of solving practically any crime. In addition to his gifts, Holmes possesses, or is possessed by, a strong determination to use them. (He doesn’t handle boredom well.) This combination of passion and ability make Holmes an unstoppable detective. In addition to the original character in the novels and stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, television’s Sherlock offers an updated take on Holmes that’s perfectly delightful.

Who is your favorite fictional detective? Give us a clue in the comments!

478. Sick

Posted on October 7, 2016 by Adam Stück

Life is a funny thing. It can be sweet and gentle, patting you on the shoulder and handing you slices of pie or cups of tea. It can also hit you repeatedly with a sack of bricks, breaking your ribs and sending you to the hospital. It depends on the day, really.

My life today is leaning slightly toward the breaking-your-ribs-with-a-sack-of-bricks end of the spectrum. I’m sick. It’s just a cold, fortunately, unless it’s actually the early stages of Ebola virus disease, which it probably isn’t. My state of residence, Indiana, isn’t perfect, but at least it doesn’t have much Ebola.

No Ebola here… I don’t think.

Anyhowz, I had another blog post planned for today, but it shall have to wait. My eyes burn. My head feels like a cannonball, and my left nasal cavity is sealed tighter than Scrooge McDuck’s bank vault. (It’s always the left side that gets congested; why is it always the left?) Alas, I haven’t the strength for a longer post today, so please accept my apologies, along with a bullet list of my miscellaneous (and probably fevered) insights on sickness.

Sick days are like enforced Sabbaths: they compel a person, no matter how busy or determined, to slow down and rest. I planned to spend yesterday working on this blog, wrapping gifts, and doing housework. I actually spent it eating pizza, replaying Radiant Historia, and hanging out with my dad and younger brother: a day well spent.
All right, this is a digression, but Radiant Historia is easily one of the best JRPGs I’ve ever played—and believe me, I’ve played plenty. If you own a Nintendo DS or 3DS, you should look it up.

Great, great game.

According to one of his biographies, C.S. Lewis loved sick days. They allowed him to sit and read without feeling guilty for failing to be productive. Another fun fact: In his earlier years, Lewis read on walks, only occasionally glancing up to admire the changing scenery. How he never tripped and broke his nose the world will never know.
Do you remember the episode of Avatar: The Last Airbender in which Sokka gets deliriously, hilariously sick? You haven’t seen it? Go watch Avatar: The Last Airbender, then. It’s a truly great show. At any rate, I like it.

Poor Sokka.

Mild sicknesses like colds provide a great explanation for non-depressed people of what depression feels like. A cold leaves a person listless and tired, and occasionally sucks the enjoyment out of things that are usually fun. Depression does the same, but without obvious physical symptoms. What a cold does physically, depression does mentally and emotionally. Since depression has fewer physical symptoms than a cold, it’s generally met with less understanding and compassion, which is a shame. My own depression (which hasn’t acted up in a long time, thank God) comes and goes in phases, much like colds and other mild illnesses.
I found myself listening to this chipper song on YouTube yesterday. It seemed apropos.

Well, I should probably get some rest. Radiant Historia isn’t going to finish itself, you know.

477. About Storytelling: Comic Relief

Posted on October 3, 2016 by Adam Stück

Always be comic in a tragedy. What the deuce else can you do?

~ G.K. Chesterton

The Internet is buzzing over Luke Cage, the latest Marvel superhero show from Netflix. I’ve watched only a few episodes, but it’s pretty good so far, with compelling drama, solid acting, a funky soundtrack—and thank heaven, a sense of humor.

Fun so far!

In art, as in life, humor is invaluable. Shakespeare understood this. He wrote a lot of comedies, and even his tragedies have gleams of humor. Romeo and Juliet is full of dirty jokes, and Hamlet has the funny gravedigger. (I don’t even like Shakespeare’s plays, but that scene from Hamlet makes me smile.) William Shakespeare is widely regarded as a master storyteller, and comic relief is a key part of his stories.

Comic relief is a storytelling technique in which humorous moments, characters, or dialogue are included in an otherwise dark or serious story. The purpose of comic relief is generally to relieve tension, softening stories that might otherwise be unpleasant or unpalatable.

(Comedies can’t have comic relief because they’re already comical. Comic relief describes not a comical tone, but a break from a serious one. Incidentally, if tragedies have comic relief, shouldn’t comedies have tragic relief? Just wondering.)

When Netflix began making shows about Marvel superheroes, it began with Daredevil, an outstanding series that I totally loved. Daredevil used comic relief very effectively. It’s a dark show. Its heroes (and, unexpectedly, its villains) wrestle with guilt, rage, self-doubt, and other inner demons. A lot of people die violently. Corruption runs rampant. Heck, there’s even a lot of literal darkness.

Tons of fun!

Fortunately, the darker elements of Daredevil are kept in check by comic relief. My favorite character, Foggy Nelson, brings sarcasm, cheerful pessimism, and warm humanity to a fairly angsty cast of characters. One of the villain’s advisers, Leland Owlsley, reacts to everything with a perfect mixture of snark and grumpiness. Even Daredevil’s mentor, a ruthless killer named Stick, speaks with a dry, sardonic sense of humor. There’s just enough humor (and humanity) in Daredevil to make the darkness and tragedy palatable.

Then came Jessica Jones, Netflix’s follow-up to Daredevil, and lo, it was painfully bleak. Without going into details—believe me, they aren’t pleasant—it’s a show about violence, abuse, betrayal, addiction, and toxic relationships, with some rape metaphors thrown in for good measure. The entire show hinges on the protagonist’s abusive relationship with a super-powered sadist. Yeah. Nasty stuff.

The thing is that Jessica Jones is actually an artistic, thoughtful, well-written, well-acted drama. It’s just painful to watch. There’s nothing to brighten the gloom or ease the tension. (David Tennant is in it, and he’s awesome, but his character is a cruel, rapey, mind-controlling stalker, so… yeah, that doesn’t help.) None of the characters are likable, and there’s no comic relief. Wait, no, I recall one joke. I think it might be repeated once. That’s it. Jessica Jones is thirteen episodes of misery.

No fun at all.

I’ve seen the first season of Daredevil twice. I will never watch Jessica Jones again. The hope and humor in Daredevil make the darker bits bearable. Jessica Jones is all darker bits.

So far, Luke Cage, which follows the events of Jessica Jones, has been really good. There aren’t as many quips as in Daredevil—man, do I ever miss Foggy Nelson—but the characters in Luke Cage at least have a sense of humor, and it makes a world of difference.

Not every tragedy needs comic relief. I can’t help but think of Shūsaku Endō, who wrote such terrific novels as Silence and The Samurai. There’s no humor in these books, and they’re more powerful for it.

Comic relief isn’t an absolute necessity, but it’s often helpful. Stories are told to edify, sure, but also to entertain… and who doesn’t appreciate a laugh?

Gritty or Glittery?

Posted on August 26, 2016 by Adam Stück

In the past few years, we’ve seen a lot of gritty media: books, films, and video games characterized by darkness, angst, violence, and square-jawed men brooding over inner conflicts. From Wolverine to Walter White, we’ve seen plenty of angsty characters on the large and small screens. Books—even young adult literature—feature people killing (and dying!) in all sorts of creative ways. The video game industry continues making games with guns, gore, and roughly one in every five words of dialogue being the f-bomb.

Angst! Darkness! Square jaws!

Why is gritty media popular? That’s a tough question to answer. I suppose there’s some truth to the darkness and violence in these media, and it resonates with people. We all feel sadness, discouragement, and anger. Some face depression, abuse, self-destructive impulses, or equally “gritty” problems.

Finally, gritty media often seems mature, sophisticated, or “grown-up.” All of this begs the question: Is it?

While gritty media has become more popular in past years, there are still plenty of lighthearted books, films, and video games: “glittery” media, so to speak.

Light! Smiles! Goofy braces!

Throughout history, comedy has nearly always taken a backseat to tragedy. Shakespeare’s most famous plays are his tragedies; Mark Twain’s cynical Adventures of Huckleberry Finn is celebrated over his cheerfuller books; P.G. Wodehouse’s clever comedies are largely eclipsed by the gloomy writings of his contemporaries. It seems humor and optimism can’t be taken seriously.

While there are certainly good things to say for gritty narratives, I don’t believe grittier is necessarily better. A purpose of art is to reflect or represent truth; the truth is that life isn’t always gloomy. A Farewell to Arms or The Things They Carried may be brilliant depictions of the horrors of war, but peace is no less real than violence. I think it’s absurd to suppose, say, Anne of Green Gables is necessarily an inferior book because it reflects joy and sentiment instead of pain and despair.

In the end, it’s a mistake to judge the quality of a thing by whether it’s gritty or glittery, tragic or comic, cynical or optimistic. That said, I would love to see people take glittery media more seriously. Can we study humorists like P.G. Wodehouse or James Thurber more widely in schools? I’m sure students wouldn’t mind putting down The Lord of the Flies. Can we have fewer gritty superhero movies and have more like Marvel’s quirky Guardians of the Galaxy? We could use a break from gloom and doom.

The world is an awfully dark place, but there’s a little light left. Some stories remember that, and I think they’re worth taking seriously.

This post was originally published on October 24, 2014. TMTF shall return with new posts on Monday, September 5!

Three Great Novels About the Silence of God

Posted on August 22, 2016 by Adam Stück

I could write pages about the silence of God, but it would all boil down to just a few words.

I don’t get it, and it troubles me.

Some of my doubts and questions about the Christian faith have been resolved. Some have not. Why does God let kids get hurt? Why does he allow us to make innocent mistakes? Why does he permit headaches and cockroaches and Fifty Shades of Grey to exist? Why, God? Why?

Yes, I know about sin and death and the fall of humankind. I know, darn it! Those things still don’t explain why God doesn’t, well, explain. Couldn’t he at least make his existence more clearly known? It seems unfair for God to penalize people for failing to believe in him when he seems intangible, invisible and… silent.

I don’t know why God remains silent. In the end, I believe because my evidence for God outweighs my evidence against him. There remain dark doubts and unanswered questions.

Since I don’t have any answers regarding the silence of God, here are what three great novels have to say upon the subject.

Be ye warned: Here there be spoilers for Silence, The Chosen and The Man Who Was Thursday.

The Man Who Was Thursday by G.K. Chesterton

The Man Who Is Thursday is the exciting tale of Gabriel Syme, a poet-turned-detective, and his attempts to stop a band of nihilistic terrorists. There’s a sword duel, and some thrilling chases, and at least one good discussion of poetry.

The novel takes a turn for the surreal in its final chapters, in which Syme and his companions realize their elaborate intrigues against the terrorist organization were actually orchestrated by its leader, the enigmatic man known only as Sunday.

Syme and his friends demand to know why Sunday, who is apparently not an evil man, allowed them to suffer so much pain and fear in their pursuit of him. One of Syme’s companions says, with the simplicity of a child, “I wish I knew why I was hurt so much.”

Sunday does not reply.

The silence is broken by the only sincere member of the nihilist organization, who accuses Syme of apathy and ignorance. It is then Syme realizes that his pain qualifies him to refute all accusations. He and his friends suffered by Sunday’s silence. No matter how wretched or tormented their accuser, the agonies they endured bought them the right to reply, “We also have suffered.”

The Chosen by Chaim Potok

The Chosen tells the story of two young Orthodox Jews in New York during the final years of World War II. During a baseball game, Reuven Malter meets a gifted student named Danny Saunders. They become friends, despite their dissimilar cultures and upbringings within the Orthodox Jewish community.

Reuven is astonished to learn Danny’s father, Reb Saunders, speaks to him only during religious discussions. At other times, Reb Saunders says nothing to his son. This cold silence baffles Danny and Reuven. What kind of father refuses to talk with his children?

The novel follows Danny and Reuven as they grow up and progress in their studies. In the wider world, the horrors of the Holocaust are revealed and Jews fight for the restoration of Israel as a nation. At last, as young men, Danny and Reuven learn the truth behind the silence of Reb Saunders.

Reb Saunders knew his son’s intelligence outweighed his concern for others. In order to teach Danny compassion, Reb Saunders distanced himself from his son. Silence, he hoped, would give Danny an understanding of pain and a greater empathy toward other people.

Danny had learned compassion, and so the silence was broken. Speaking of Reb Saunders, Danny tells Reuben at the end of the novel, “We talk now.”

Silence by Shusaku Endo

This is it: the definitive novel about the silence of God. Heck, the book is even titled Silence. This gloomy masterpiece tells of Sebastião Rodrigues, a Portuguese Jesuit sent to seventeenth-century Japan. He hopes to encourage the tiny population of Japanese Christians, and is willing to die for his mission.

What he doesn’t expect is to watch others die for his mission. When he is captured by Japanese authorities, Rodrigues is not martyred. Instead, he watches as the authorities martyr other Christians because of his religion. Rodrigues expected to suffer for his faith. He did not imagine he would cause others to suffer for it.

In this darkness and brutality, God says nothing. There is only silence.

At last, as Rodrigues recants his faith to spare the lives of other Christians, the image of Christ he is forced to trample seems to break the silence: “Trample! Trample! I more than anyone know of the pain in your foot. Trample! It was to be trampled on by men that I was born into this world. It was to share men’s pain that I carried my cross.”

For me, this is the most powerful answer in these three novels to the question of God’s silence. God may seem silent, but he has shattered the silence once for all with a single word—rather, a single Word: the Word who became flesh and made his dwelling among us. Whatever the sufferings in this world, Jesus shared them. However little God may seem to say to us now, Jesus said plenty.

Do I understand the silence of God? No. I do, however, find great comfort in these books, which offer tentative answers to a great and terrible question.

This post was originally published on January 3, 2014. TMTF shall return with new posts on Monday, September 5!

468. Of Mice and Men (and Monkeys)

Posted on August 19, 2016 by Adam Stück

This blog is taking a two-week break, returning with new posts on Monday, September 5.

I had planned to work ahead on this blog during my recent vacation. However, in each of the places I visited, I couldn’t get the Internet working smoothly on my computer. Alas! This means TMTF is now behind schedule.

(It doesn’t help that my typewriter monkeys, my reluctant assistants for this blog, are currently in jail. It’s a long story.)

Instead of scrambling to write quick-and-dirty posts for this blog’s next few deadlines, I’ve decided to take a couple of weeks off. It was a reluctant decision. I really wanted to finish TMTF before this year ended, but at this point I’m not sure that’s feasible. By taking a break, I resign myself to ending this blog early next year, which will save me a lot of stress and worry in the long run. Now I don’t have to rush.

My sense of responsibility borders on the pathological, so I always feel guilty when I miss deadlines or neglect commitments. However, as I said the last time I took a sudden break from blogging, “The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang aft agley.” Translated from the Scots language to contemporary English, this phrase by Scottish poet Robert Burns reads something like, “Stuff happens, yo.”

And it does.

“Stuff happens” is a recurring theme for this blog, actually.

The best-laid plans of mice and men (and monkeys) go often awry. We’re only human. (At any rate, I’m only human. My typewriter monkeys are… well, monkeys.) I suppose the occasional break is inevitable.

TMTF won’t go dark during its two-week break; I’ll republish old posts on the blog’s usual Monday/Wednesday/Friday schedule. We recycle here; TMTF is very eco-friendly.

Before taking that break, I would like to share a few sneak peeks of what TMTF has in store for the months ahead.

I want to write one more Gabriel Green story: a last hurrah for the man whose star-crossed career has provided a couple of short stories for this blog.
I’m really excited for the next Adam’s Story post, which will include some concept art. I’ve already given one preview. Here’s another:

Do you know what irritates me? People who don’t wash their hands. They make me… angry. Really angry. Bad stuff happens when I’m angry.
I’ve written a lot of That Time I _____ posts, but there’s one important event I’ve never mentioned. It involves burgers.

There’s some cool stuff ahead… I hope. I should probably start working on it.

Louisa May Alcott once wrote, “First live, then write.” Solid advice. I have some living to do, but I’ll be back. TMTF shall return with new posts on Monday, September 5. Thanks for reading!

463. Goodbye, Beatrice

Posted on August 1, 2016 by Adam Stück

I’ve been reading about hell, and thinking of the girls I liked in my younger days. There’s a connection here, but… probably not the one you think.

In preparation for my story project, I’ve been rereading Dante’s Inferno, a centuries-old poem about a man who journeys through hell. The poem starts with Dante meeting the soul of Virgil, an ancient Roman poet. Virgil rescues Dante from a dark wood, giving him both good and bad news.

Oh, hell.

The bad news is that they must pass through the nightmarish depths of hell. The good news is that Dante’s love, the dearly departed Beatrice, has interceded for him from heaven. After braving hell and purgatory, Dante will meet her there.

In the poem, Dante represents Beatrice as a savior: a lady of perfect beauty and saintly goodness. In real life, Dante apparently met Beatrice twice. He barely knew her as a person. Instead, he obsessed over her as an idea—a vision that had poetic power but was disconnected from reality.

Beatrice married another man, and died young. Dante obsessed over her memory for the rest of his life, thinking of her even after marrying another woman and having children. He himself acknowledged Beatrice as “the glorious lady of my mind,” a vision barely grounded in reality. In Dante’s mind, Beatrice was an angelic being of compassion and redemption.

To Dante, Beatrice was all clouds and halos.

It makes me wonder what Beatrice was like in real life. Did she think twice about Dante? Did she even read poetry? What were her favorite foods? Did she have a secret crush of her own?

Beatrice is a fascinating character in Dante’s work—a fictional character. She plays an invaluable role in Dante’s Divine Comedy, of which Inferno is the first part, but the role owes everything to Dante’s imagination and practically nothing to Beatrice herself. Dante’s Beatrice was an idea, not a person.

Like Dante, I’ve had secret crushes on gals I’ve known. Most of them are now happily married to other dudes, and good for them. I wish them the best.

It’s just hard to let go sometimes.

There’s one gal in particular—I’ll call her Socrates—who is rather like my own Beatrice. I could share more details, but won’t in case she ever reads my blog. How awkward would that be? (Answer: Soul-rendingly awkward.) I haven’t seen my old crush in years, but when I think of Dante’s Beatrice, I imagine her looking just like Socrates.

I won’t post a picture of Socrates, so please accept this photo of a penguin instead.

I’m a sentimental person. It’s hard for me not to treasure my memories of Socrates, and even to idealize them. She has become my own “glorious lady of my mind,” disconnected from the real Socrates. The real Socrates, wherever she is now, is a living person. She has her own likes and plans and interests. She has her own life. At this point, it isn’t romantic for me to idealize Socrates—it’s disrespectful, really. It makes for great poetry but lousy living.

I sometimes can’t help but wonder whether my life would be different if I had told Socrates that I liked her all those years ago. This can become just as disrespectful as idealizing her, and for the same reason. It replaces a person with an idea. I stop thinking of Socrates as an actual person, and think of her instead as a missed opportunity. It isn’t respectful, and it frankly isn’t healthy.

I’m still a stubbornly single dude. Even so, I figured that at some point I would grow up and stop having crushes on pretty girls. I haven’t. (Of course, I still watch cartoons and occasionally make faces in the mirror, so maybe I failed the whole growing-up thing.) At the moment, I’m letting go of another crush on another Beatrice. Like Socrates, she is also an actual person with her own life to live, and I need to respect that.

I live in a complicated world. It’s tempting to reduce human beings to trite, comforting ideas, but it isn’t right. People are people. They deserve to be respected as people, not reimagined according to my own romantic notions.

Dante wrote some great stuff, but I have to wonder whether he was happy. He was haunted by the memory of a girl he met twice. Is that any way to live?

My Beatrices have their own lives to live, and I have mine. I had better live it.

I’m now going to eat peppermint fudge and watch Steven Universe. Take that, Dante.

462. About Storytelling: Subverting Expectations

Posted on July 29, 2016 by Adam Stück

Not long ago, I began playing a little game titled Recettear: An Item’s Shop’s Tale, and promptly decided it may be the best thing in the universe.

I exaggerate, but Recettear is delightful all the same. It’s set in a standard fantasy world of monsters, swords, and magic, with one important twist: the player doesn’t control an adventurer. The player controls a shopkeeper: a sweet, chipper girl named Recette who must pay off her absent father’s debts. Recette’s motto: “Capitalism, ho!”

Capitalism has never been cuter.

Fantasy games have always had shops. They’re a ubiquitous feature in the manner of inns, dungeons, and bosses. Gamers accept them without thinking. Heck, off the top of my head, I can’t think of a single fantasy game that doesn’t have some kind of shop.

Recettear turns the cliché of the fantasy-game shop on its head. This time around, the player isn’t fighting to save the world—he’s fighting to make that next debt payment. A player can’t just waltz into dungeons; she must hire an adventurer to keep her safe while she searches for items to sell. Recettear shows the behind-the-scenes struggles of keeping a fantasy-game shop open for business, providing a twist on a well-worn trope.

Recettear: An Item Shop’s Tale represents a brilliant creative tactic: subverting expectations.

After a certain number of stories, we begin to see patterns. The good guys win. Things end badly for the villain. Depending on the story’s tone, either romance happens, or it doesn’t—either way, we can usually see it coming. If Sean Bean is in a movie, his character probably dies. We expect these things. We figure out that stories usually work a certain way.

It’s neat, then, when stories come along that work differently.

Consider, for example, how Disney’s Frozen handles the love-at-first-sight cliché. In many previous Disney films, the guy and the girl fall in love hilariously fast. I mean, seriously, the prince in Cinderella decides to marry the eponymous heroine before he even knows her name. They dance for one scene, and then he wants to get married. It’s actually kinda creepy.

Will you marry me? Oh, and what’s your name?

Frozen is different. (Spoilers ahead, in case anyone cares.) The movie sets up the love-at-first-sight cliché between Princess Anna and her crush, Prince Hans. Shortly after meeting, they decided to get married. I mean, they sing a cute song and everything. When they share the news, however, they’re met with incredulity and derision. “You can’t marry a man you just met,” declares Anna’s sister flatly. Later on in the film, Kristoff reacts in pretty much the same way.

When I watched Frozen, I wasn’t expecting the movie—a Disney movie about princesses, mind you—to mock the love-at-first-sight cliché. But it did. And it was refreshing, funny, and simply delightful to see.

Let’s look at a more literary example: Father Brown, the mystery-solving priest from the stories by G.K. Chesterton. Detectives in fiction are often marked by certain characteristics, which are best exemplified in Sherlock Holmes, the most famous detective of all: intelligence, logic, curiosity, emotional distance, and a strong sense of justice.

Father Brown subverts practically all of these.

He isn’t your garden-variety sleuth.

He’s a perfect foil to Sherlock Holmes—the Anti-Holmes, if you will. Holmes is tall, thin, emotionless, and just. His brilliance is painfully obvious. By contrast, Father Brown is short, stout, deeply empathetic, and merciful. His intelligence is belied by his humility and simpleminded manner. Holmes solves mysteries by careful reasoning; Father Brown solves them by common sense and an intuitive understanding of human nature. Holmes kills his greatest enemy; Father Brown redeems and befriends his own archnemesis.

Everyone expects Holmes to be brilliant. In a charming subversion, everyone dismisses Father Brown as a superstitious simpleton, which makes it all the more satisfying when he apologetically solves the mystery right under their noses. It’s another terrific subversion of audience expectations, and it makes for great reading.

We’ve all come to expect certain things from fiction. How exciting when fiction gives us things we don’t expect!

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