It Ain't your Baby no More

In the wake of the Boston terror attacks at the marathon the other day, some strange twists developed that gave me pause for thought.  And they were strange - and I believe important - enough for me to break from tradition and share my thoughts on them with readers here.

Shortly after the attacks and their aftermath, musician and performer Amanda Palmer, as you may have seen, wrote and posted a poem to her blog titled "a poem for dzhokhar."  Based on the title, I can only assume it's dedicated to the suspected terrorist pinned down and arrested after several days of absolute madness in Boston.  A title is, after all, supposed to be "a descriptive name, caption, or heading" for a book, poem, etc.

Not surprising (at least to me) was the incredible backlash she faced as soon as she published the poem to the blog.  Reactions varied between mild concern over the poem's title and content, to "are you fucking kidding me?"  Ms. Palmer seemed to think it astonishing that people would think she was writing about him, and even had to defend the poem and try to explain what she really meant writing it.  She even came out and stated verbatim "the you isn't him," even as it appeared so to me and many other readers.  Many of her fans have come to her rescue too, stating quite emphatically that those who reacted negatively to the poem just didn't understand it.

I don't often discuss politically-related stuff on Twitter, or blog about it here, but felt compelled enough to comment.  That instantly drew me into conversation with someone I can only assume was one of her fans who promptly informed me that if I couldn't get the true meaning of the poem, I'd best butt out of the conversation and leave it to the adults.  We had a somewhat civil discussion following that about the intent and meaning of the poem, for what it's worth.  But it really got me thinking about what a story becomes to author and to reader.  And therein lies the key to a very interesting literary concept, folks.  It's not one often talked about, but it's very vital to the relationship between authors and readers.  That concept is this:

Once the author or artist publishes something, its interpretation is no longer theirs, but the readers'.  They have done their part to form something which they hope best conveys their thoughts to the audience, but once it is published, the interpretation no longer belongs to them.  In other words, it ain't your baby no more.

Of course, the author(s) and/or publisher(s) still hold the copyright to the work.  That is an important distinction, separate from what I'm talking about here.  They still have control over further creative edits, as well as the sale, production, and reproduction of the work.  That is a vital component of literature and art.  What they don't own is the imagery of the story itself, the reader's experience of it.

I've seen, time and again, literary agents give advice to authors, and one such piece of advice that has stuck with me is this: if you have to explain your writing to someone, you have failed as an writer.  It's your job to form the words in such a way as to best convey ideas and imagery from your mind to the readers'.  If that image is jumbled en route from your mind to theirs, then you have failed in that job.

There is an entire sub-set of the publishing industry built around interpreting plot points and meanings behind literary works, in the form of Cliffs Notes and other such cheat sheets and guides.  We take classes on literature and art, read all manner of written works, and then sit around and commend each other on how well we've understood and interpreted the author's true meaning behind the words.  We practically throw our shoulders out of joint patting ourselves on the back because we got the "true" meaning behind what the author wrote.

And a lot of it is bullshit.  While there is merit in understanding the meanings behind art and literature, and while there is often intended meaning behind such works, those works are by their very nature subjective.  This means they're completely subject to the readers' points of view, not the author's.  The imagery in the reader's mind's eye belongs only to the reader.  The accuracy in which it is conveyed from author to reader is because of the author's talent in writing, not the reader's in understanding.  And just as important, the lack of accuracy in transferal also belongs to the author and not the reader.

In my head are very vivid pictures of a world quite different from ours, a world that started with the image of a lone gunslinger heading out across a dry and dusty wasteland.  Now Stephen King did a tremendous job creating those images in my head, and I'd bet they're fairly similar to what he had in mind when he wrote the story.  That's a tribute to how well he did his job as an author.  But no matter how well he wrote, my images of that world will be far different from his, because when I read those books, that part of the story became mine.

Ms. Palmer is a songwriter and musician who has been in the business for a while.  She's married to the incredibly talented author Neil Gaiman.  Together, that's a ton of artistic and literary talent and experience.  I'm sure she's fully aware of this concept.  When her stated intent behind the poem clashes with such a large number of its readers, that tells me she failed to convey her intent to them.  At least I hope so, because the alternative is worrisome.

I'm not here to speculate on her motives for writing such a piece, although by publishing it, she leaves the option to do so fully in her readers' hands.  I have to think that if it's a sort of "sympathy for the devil" piece, it didn't work very well at all.  There are many pieces of literature throughout history that have themes of empathy for antagonistic characters.  Vladimir Nabokov's character Humbert Humbert in the novel Lolita is a fine example.  As a reader, you come to hate him in the end, even as you understand him.  Author Joe Hill wrote one of the best such examples I can think of in recent history with his novel Horns.  His character Ig Parrish is quite obviously an antagonist written as a protagonist - essentially the devil himself, and yet we find ourselves rooting for him.  That's a hard thing to pull off in a book.  And yet it works incredibly well, because it isn't merely a story glorifying a very bad guy, but one that distinctly highlights the clash between good and evil in all of us.

So why do I feel that Ms. Palmer's poem didn't work very well in that regard?  Because while allegedly writing it to appeal to the compassionate or empathetic side of human kind, she linked it specifically to a man who planned and prepared for weeks in advance, deliberately placed a bomb down behind an eight-year-old boy, and then walked away smiling as shrapnel ripped through that boy and hundreds of other victims.  The horror was still vivid and immediate in the mind's eye because most of America watched as he did it, a few short days before.  To link that imagery, that callous lack of regard for the lives of others to the thought that we're somehow all connected, all human, completely boggled my mind.  There is a reason we call such acts "inhuman," and it's because they are decidedly not within the bounds of normal human behavior, not suited for human beings.  It's no wonder - and should be no wonder to Ms. Palmer - the poem has received such vitriol and negative criticism.

So to those who criticize detractors because we "just don't get it," just stop.  Just fuckin' stop.  You're insulting our intelligence by suggesting we can't grasp the "real" meaning behind it, and you're denigrating our humanity by insinuating we aren't willing or able to empathize with a terrorist who killed innocent life in cold blood.  If Ms. Palmer wants to write something that makes half her readers think she is glorifying a terrorist, fine, it's her prerogative.  If it does something for some folks, that's fine too.  But don't try to invalidate others' views of the poem or argue they don't get the meaning, because it ain't her baby no more.

Update: the Twitter user with which I conversed on this topic has since deleted all related tweets, leaving only my replies as evidence.

Fun with Words: A Wee Rant

"You keep using that word.  I do not think it means what you think it means." - Inigo Montoya, The Princess Bride.

Seems all the time I think similar thoughts, seeing people use words the wrong way.  They're powerful things, words.  Just a single one can make a huge impact on a story, a speech, a conversation.  They can raise you up, and they can cut you right back down to size.

But words, like the character of Inigo Montoya stated so eloquently, do not always mean what one thinks they mean.  We often use words wrong, for wide variety of reasons.  And because we use them wrong, others learn them wrong and perpetuate their wrong use.

Now I'm not talking about words like "then vs. than", or the spectacular failure that seems to be our understanding of "their, there, and they're", or any other malapropism.  I'm not even going to go there, because I don't want to get that worked up.  I can do without the aneurysm.  No, I'm talking about words we mistake the meaning for, those we think we're using correctly but aren't at all.  It's irritating, because the more they're used wrong, the more their wrong use is perpetuated.  And don't give me that lame "but language is always evolving" excuse.  I know how languages work, thank you very much.

And by the way, a hearty thank you to Alanis Morissette, for the wonderful, unintentional lesson on the misuse of irony.  Irony.  That's a very good place to start, don't you think?

Irony.  i·ro·ny [ahy-ruh-nee, ahy-er-] noun, plural -nies.  Several of the dictionary definitions include: The use of words to express something different from and often opposite to their literal meaning.  An expression or utterance marked by a deliberate contrast between apparent and intended meaning.  Incongruity between what might be expected and what actually occurs.

Good job there, Alanis.  You very aptly described coincidence, not irony.  And the misuse of it here isn't really ironic, either.  It's unfortunate.  It would be ironic if Ms. Morissette were an English teacher instead of a singer.  As to the lyrics, hardly any are the least bit ironic.  The fact you called the song Ironic however, is quite ironic.

If I was afraid of flying and died in a plane crash, that would be a coincidence that fulfilled my paranoia.  If I was afraid of flying and took a bus because it was safer, only to die in a bus crash, that would be ironic.  If I was an aircraft safety inspector and I died in a plane crash, that would be coincidental.  If, as that aircraft safety inspector, I died in a plane crash in an attempt to show just how safe the plane was, after inspecting it myself, that would be irony.

Literally.  lit·er·al·ly [lit-er-uh-lee] adverb.  Dictionary definitions include: In the literal or strict sense.  In a literal manner; word for word: to translate literally.  Actually; without exaggeration or inaccuracy.

Something literal is "word for word".  It's the actual, really real definition of something.  The way it in fact is.  And it's used in place of the word "figuratively" more often than it's used correctly.  Stop it.  Literally, just stop it.

"I literally died laughing at that joke!"  No, you didn't.  You died figuratively.  If you'd have literally died, I'd literally be on my way to the morgue with your cold corpse.  Or the hospital.  How much I liked you could quite literally affect my destination, if I was figuratively that cold-hearted.

And just now, I mentally threw a book at your face for saying that.  Mentally.  Figuratively.  Not literally, because it would have been impossible to literally throw a book at you, seeing as you're not even in the same room as I.  You could use the word "figuratively" in the example above.  There's nothing wrong with that word.  You could even say "I died laughing at that joke," without any modifier, because that would be simple - and obvious - hyperbole.

Penultimate.  pe·nul·ti·mate [pi-nuhl-tuh-mit] adjective. Definitions: Next to the last.  Of or pertaining to a penult, the next-to-last syllable of a word.

This word is often misused in sports.  "They had the penultimate season!"  No, they had the ultimate season.  The team they beat in the final game had the penultimate season.  Penultimate, in this context, isn't a grand accomplishment, eclipsing all others, it's the agony of defeat, ultimately failing after getting oh-so-close.  The Seahawks won their penultimate game in the 2005 playoffs, resoundingly, only to become the penultimate team of that season.

Proverbial.  pro·ver·bi·al [pruh-vur-bee-uhl] adjective.  And the dictionary definitions: Of, pertaining to, or characteristic of a proverb.  Expressed in a proverb or proverbs: proverbial wisdom.  Of the nature of or resembling a proverb.

Again, used heavily in sports broadcasting.  I don't know how many times I've heard about being on "proverbial cloud nine", or throwing the "proverbial perfect pass", or that "proverbial monkey on one's back".  It's uttered about once a game, or race, or match from some broadcaster or another.  We hear it all the time in television.  And in movies.  And it's wrong.  "Idiomatic" is usually the word they're looking for.  When they say the "proverbial perfect pass", what they really mean is the "quintessential pass".

"Cloud nine" does not come from a proverb.  It's an idiom.  And there are no proverbs that speak of throwing a touchdown, or making a daring pass on a race track, or any other sporting events for that matter.  Jesus never spoke about making that hard-to-throw spiral.  Aesop never recounted a tale about the awesomeness of being on the ninth cloud.  And a "monkey on one's back" comes from nature, not parable.  It comes from observing baby monkeys of many species, how they ride on their mothers backs, and don't come off, no matter how the mother jumps around.  It's an idiom for something you just can't shake, no matter how hard you try.

Myth.  myth [mith] noun.  With dictionary definition: A traditional or legendary story, usually concerning some being, hero, or event, with or without a determinable basis of fact or a natural explanation, especially one that is concerned with deities or demigods and explains some practice, rite, or phenomenon of nature.  An imaginary or fictitious thing or person.

We owe at least a little bit of the misuse on this one to the television show Mythbusters.  Now don't get me wrong, it's a great show.  I absolutely love it!  But they're only sometimes busting myths.  Sometimes it's just misconceptions.  Snopes.com doesn't always bust myths either.  Mostly they bust inaccurate perceptions and misconceptions, based on rumors and inaccurate information.

And those constant advertorials proclaiming to have the answers for the "10 Myths about Drinking Alcohol", or 10 Myths about Mental Illness", or whatever other misconceptions there are, aren't really myths either.  There is, to my knowledge, no fictitious or imaginary being known for touting the dangers of that demon alcohol.  Say it with me now, people:  those are misconceptions, not myths.  Dionysus was a myth.  Pan was a myth.  And those are the closest things you'll ever find if you're looking for myths about drinking.

Sentient.  sen·tient [sen-shuhnt] adjective.  Having the power of perception by the senses; conscious.  Characterized by sensation and consciousness.

As a science fiction writer, this one strikes near and dear to my heart.  We see and hear it all the time.  "Ooo, a sentient being!"  Well, no shit.  There are a lot of sentient beings besides humans on the earth.  In fact, our world is teeming with them.  Your dog is sentient.  He's self-aware; he knows he exists.  He knows those are his own balls he's licking right now.  That's why he's licking them: they're his, and he can lick them all day if he wants to.

And while sometimes yes, sentience is what someone means when they're talking about a self-aware machine, what they are often referring to is sapience.  It comes from the same root as homo sapiens.  Sapiens, meaning "to be wise", or "to have taste" in Latin, refers to an ability to make decisions based on wisdom, experience and judgment.  Yes, it's very much human-like, a trait we humans share with almost nothing else on the planet.  While some animals can learn, and associate certain events with others, higher deductive reasoning and judgment is peculiar to humans.  At least until we let those mad scientists in the genetics labs go nuts.  Kidding, folks, kidding.  Only a few of us really want to see giant lab rats with super-human intelligence and cognitive reasoning.

Nemesis.  nem·e·sis [nem-uh-sis] noun, plural -ses  [-seez].  In classical mythology, the goddess of divine retribution.  An agent or act of retribution or punishment.  Something that a person cannot conquer, achieve, etc.  An opponent or rival whom a person cannot best or overcome.

A nemesis isn't just an antagonist or an enemy.  He's not the bad guy the good guy defeats in the end.  He's more than that.  He's the one foe that knows and can exploit someone's Achilles' heel; the one thing they cannot conquer.  A nemesis is the unbeatable, that agent of retribution which one cannot defeat.  So chances are, unless the hero dies in the end, it's unlikely they met their nemesis for the last time.  They were probably the antihero's nemesis instead.  In fact, an "agent or act of retribution or punishment" sounds much more like the hero of most stories, meting out retribution to wrongdoers, instead of the villain.

Ok, I'm finished.  That's all I can produce off the top of my head.  I'm sure a few more examples will come raging to the forefront of my mind once I've posted this.   Oh well, it's probably a big enough rant for now anyway.  Now back to your regularly scheduled programming.