Children are
interesting.
I’ve got a buddy who
often used to (and occasionally still does) give me trouble for my
stories. He’s under the impression that
theonly thing I care about or want to write is the proverbial “seven kids
coming together to fight a greater evil.”
Bonus points were added if he tossed in the phrase “with RPG-style
turn-based combat.”
I don’t think I need to
bother trying to explain that that’s not the case. On the other hand -- and this is something
that took me years to even consider -- would writing a story about seven kids
fighting a greater evil automatically make it terrible? Fictional precedents suggest that as long as
the story is well-executed, then it shouldn’t matter if the story is
about/stars children or adults. Besides,
stories are all about exploring possibilities.
Characters are vehicles to explore possibilities. So why not explore possibilities via
children? It’s easy to dismiss them,
sure, but their perspective and potential shouldn’t be ignored so readily. I’ve seen the alternative too many times, and
it ain’t pretty.
But setting aside story
potential, I have to ask something. Who
has more raw imaginative power than a child?
That’s the one thing they -- or we, or you, depending on your level of
judgment/self-esteem -- can be counted on for having. The power to create new games, new scenarios,
new characters, and of course new worlds is something that anybody should
appreciate, ESPECIALLY those that love fiction (which is everyone,
probably). And just think about it -- it
seems like they don’t even need to consciously try to come up with the things they do. It just sort of happens with the slightest
provocation.
Unfortunately, that’s
not always a good thing. Children may be
more likely to see the world in new, different, and even exciting ways, but
they’re just as likely to see a scarier place as someone older. To them, monsters under the bed or hiding in
the closet or lurking in the shadows aren’t just a possibility; they’re
practically a fact of life. It certainly
doesn’t help that on any given night, any number of imagined creatures can
stalk them in their dreams. Or to put it
directly, nightmares.
Let’s be real
here. I doubt there’s ever been a
person, regardless of age, that’s gone through their entire life without having
one nightmare. I don’t know what it is about dreams that
makes everyone -- myself included -- have the one where they’re not wearing
pants, or have to take a test they didn’t study for, but I guess those are just
the consequences of being human. Same
goes for dreaming up monsters, or monsters, or just bugs crawling all over you. There’s no telling what’ll attack you in your
nightmares, but at least we can all take solace in knowing that it’ll be over
as soon as we wake up in the morning.
Right?
I guess that’s
irrationality for you. There’s a line
between the real and unreal, but no matter how old you are the line tends to
get blurred -- if not crossed -- on a regular basis. Superstition.
“Random” chance. The idea that a
god is either out to get you, or answering your prayers on an hourly
basis. And of course, fear. Sometimes we can’t help but let our minds
imagine possibilities, and put us in an imagined sense of danger. And there’s no bigger proving ground, no
world more eager to put you at risk, than the dream world. It’s almost hilarious how the same state that
makes pure randomness come together in a barely-logical string of events can
allow for things like a “recurring nightmare”.
Want to know what mine
is? “Bana”.
I don’t know exactly
what age I was when I started dreaming about Bana -- probably around the same
time when I realized shoes could be worn without Velcro. And even if I don’t think about that thing on a regular bases (which I
don’t, for obvious reasons), it’s actually not too hard for me to remember that
first dream. I’m in the kitchen of my
grandma’s house, and it’s late at night.
Most of the house is dark, except for one light over by the window. My brother’s in the room too -- and for some
reason, he’s uncharacteristically afraid.
It doesn’t take long for me to figure out why; Bana is on its way.
And it’s there before I
can even think of running. It’s hard to
forget that form. Completely black --
not black-skinned, but shrouded in some kind of writhing black veil, almost
like flames. A wider base for its lower
half, and showing off knife-nailed forearms as thick as I am. Long, sprawling horns -- not designed to gore
you in the slightest, but just looking at them is enough to stop hearts. And those red ring eyes, glowing bright as
they lock on their prey…unsettling stuff, without a doubt.
But it’s not Bana’s
looks that scared me back then, or make me nervous now. It’s
the sound.
There is no way for me
to accurately describe the sound that Bana makes. None.
The closest I can give is an approximation, and even then it’s not even close.
But I’ll give it a shot, if only for the sake of this entry. The best I can offer is imagining a mix of a
broken vacuum cleaner, a jet engine at full blast, and a bleating goat all
mixed into one continuous, maximum-volume noise. Yes, noise -- maybe if the tremolo of its
sound got slowed to a crawl, it’d sound something like speech, or even
music. But as-is, it’s this rapid string
of ear-shredding notes. And it only gets
louder as it gets closer.
As far as I can tell,
that’s Bana’s sole strategy: paralyze you with its sound, and make its way
toward you with claws at the ready. What
happens after that? No clue. Once it gets you -- or should I say me --
everything goes black. Presumably, it
kills me. Devours me. Tears me to shreds. Or in the worst-case scenario, it makes me a
part of itself. I don’t know; after the
blackout -- the failure state -- I wake up.
And it almost always ends in a
failure state; to date, I only managed to survive once thanks to a
last-ditch-effort punch…and even then, the most I did was make it appear right
behind me instead of go for a head-on charge.
Where did that thing
come from? Was it really something I
created -- me, the so-called Eternal Optimist, and a firm believer in human
spirit and potential? Why would I -- especially
the little kid version of me -- ever give birth to an invincible predator? I’d prefer to believe that someone else made
it and shoved it into my head, or perhaps I’m just imagining a creature that
already exists. But neither option
sounds any better.
I guess Bana -- and the
nightmares therein -- are just something I’m going to have to deal with. I’m thankful that I haven’t had a dream about
it in years (by which I mean roughly two
or three), but the potential is always there, just as it always has. On any given night, I could be drifting off
to sleep, only to find myself swarmed by a red glow and a horrific scream. And then, death.
As if I didn’t die
enough in my dreams.
You know, I fancy
myself a writer. I’d like to think that
one day I’ll be called upon regularly to give amazing stories, worlds,
characters, and scenarios to the people.
That’s one dream I don’t mind having.
But sometimes, every once in a while, I can’t help but wonder if I have
what it takes. Not necessarily in terms
of talent or effort (though those are real concerns, obviously); no, it’s
because I find myself wondering if I’ve peaked.
Could it be that I peaked before I’d even started kindergarten? Could it be that the greatest creation I’ll
ever have is one that I made by accident?
And if that’s the case, then do I dare to consciously imagine the
creature that’s been haunting the corners of my mind for years?
Could it be that in
order to become a writing hero, I have to harness the dark power of the greatest
villain I’ve ever known?
It seems like a big
gamble. This is a creature that’s left
me unsettled, and at times even worried about what’s hiding in the dark, for
ages now. Is it really okay for me to confront
my fear? No, it goes a lot further than
that; the fact that I’m writing this entry means that I’ve long since started
taking steps against it. The issue here
is whether or not it’s okay to explore that power. I should be comfortable writing heroes and
villains, but I can’t shake the feeling that certain topics -- certain
creatures -- are best left unexplored.
If I ended up taking the plunge into the black end of the pool, would I
really be able to walk away unscathed?
Would I end up engaging with this creature in ways I never would have
thought possible? Would superstition,
chance, divinity, and fear come together to create the worst possible scenario
-- to cross the boundary between reality and fantasy, and make my greatest
predator real?
I want to say, “Of
course it’s impossible. Stop being
silly.” And in a lot of ways, it
is. But the concept -- the potential,
the what-if factor that defies law and order -- is something that genuinely
makes my stomach quiver. There are a lot
of things a writer should do, and shouldn’t do…and I get the feeling that I’ve
found my own personal forbidden fruit.
I’m not so high-minded
to think that what I create -- or will create -- will have a genuine impact on
others without fail. But…truth be told,
I feel like I understand the concept fairly well. A good story makes people want to believe that it’s real, and in one way
or another do their best to make it real.
Maybe they’ll do it in an active sense, like role-playing or offering up
their own scenarios. Or maybe they’ll do
it in a figurative sense, like building fandoms, pondering about the canon, or
engaging with the story in ways the creator may never have intended. But whatever the case, they have the power to
make the unreal real. Belief and
devotion -- the power of human thought -- can go a long way. It’s changed the world before, albeit in a
logical, mundane sense.
But what if it goes
farther than that? What if human minds
can affect the world in a way that goes beyond the mundane? What if -- with enough gathered and focused
thought -- the rules of what we know and expect can be bent?
It sounds far-fetched,
I know, but I have seen theories about stuff like that before. There have been arguments that people have
the power to alter probability and outcomes just by focusing hard enough…and
pseudoscience or not, psychic powers have been in consideration for
decades. Nothing has been conclusively
proven, of course, but…maybe the possibility has always been there.
And maybe the one thing
that’s necessary for that rule-changing -- the catalyst for thought focused
beyond normal bounds -- is a story.
I’ve always believed
that fiction changes us. It helps define
us, how we perceive the world, and how we conduct ourselves -- however subtly
that may be. And there have been real-world
examples with real-world stories that have shown just what happens when a work
becomes intellectually and culturally ingrained in a populace. It changes people, the way people think, the
things they expect, and -- through some serious trickle-down application -- the
world itself starts to change. The creative
sphere changes to suit the trends.
Me-too creators try their hand (and fail), or perhaps respect is paid to
the original story, proliferating certain ideas. And those ideas end up spreading, becoming
part of the public and personal consciousness, and in turn change the people --
the world itself -- even further. Strong
ideas beget strong reactions, which beget strong ideas, which beget strong
reactions. And what better source of a
strong idea is there than a good story?
Something willingly picked up and digested by a curious audience?
I can’t imagine what
kind of harm could be done if a strong idea -- an image, a belief, whatever --
ended up getting spread. And while I
have a lot of faith in humanity, I don’t think I can willingly unleash something
like Bana upon them. Not extensively, of
course. Maybe a creature I can mention
in passing in a conversation, or at the most just a jumping-off point for a
knockoff character. But the real
deal? I can’t do it. Not now, at least.
I would call it a mix
of white-knighting and selfishness. On
one hand, I feel like I have to protect people from something I created, out of
some misguided sense of duty (proof that I’m probably not the nice guy some
people think I am). On the other hand,
I’m probably just holding it back to protect myself. I’m afraid of what would happen if people did
their best to make Bana real. I’ve had
enough trouble dealing with it in my dreams; seeing things like the internet or
TV go all in trying to reproduce it won’t help me sleep any easier. (So again, there’s proof I’m not the nicest
guy around.)
So in the end, I guess
that’s all I can do: be honest with myself, and know my limits. There’s a lot that I’ll do and a lot I’ll
explore in my little quest, but there are just some lines I can’t cross. And this, more than any other, is the big
one.
My nightmares are my
own. And I want to keep it that way.
Well, that’s the end of
that. Guess I’ll call it a night…though
I feel kind of bad about only making this thing only twenty-three hundred
words. Oh well. It was a nice little exercise -- and it’s not
like this file’s going anywhere.
It’s probably a good
thing no one’s going to see this journal entry exercise. This thing’s nothing but a bunch of rambling
-- and who wants to see that?