[Teresa Edgerton]

I have often heard that certain authors are expanding the boundaries of the genre, because their books are somehow “different” -- but when I read these books I see only another variation on the familiar faux-medieval setting, and the much-vaunted difference seems only to consist of a grimmer world-view and more sensational plot lines. (And even this is not new; I remember reading fantasy of this same sort thirty-five years ago.) In discussions where readers express their distaste for scenes of particularly gratuitous violence (usually sexual violence) others are accustomed to dismiss their concerns with a glib, “but that’s the way things were back then.” Well, first of all, we are not writing about “back then” we are writing about imaginary times and places. Second of all, even back then it was not “that way” all of the time. If it had been, the race would have extinguished itself several centuries ago, and there would be no “right now.” Moreover, so many other aspects of the medieval setting are changed, distorted, left-out, or misrepresented, why do so many readers and writers insist on that one aspect in the name of greater realism? And do these stories cause us to look at our world and the people around us with “fresh attention,” or do we merely nod our heads wisely and say, “Yes, it’s all just as I thought it was.”

I am reminded of something else that Tolkien said, which was how he found it very strange that some people regarded factories as more “real” than horses. Yet even today, the creature is not quite mythical -- and I have known many people of undeniable veracity who attest to the existence of horses. Could somebody please explain to me how things that do exist, that are done, that have been experienced, could possibly be less real than other objects, actions, or experiences of the same order? Yes, human history is a long record of war and hardship -- but how could we have survived so long as a species if that was all there ever was to it, if there were no people looking out for each other, standing by their principles (not easily for sure, but with concerted effort) or making such sacrifices that they left behind an enduring mark on society? How could we have survived without poets, novelists, painters, and musicians capable of seeing and communicating their own poignant and heart-lifting perceptions of beauty? Do we not, even in this age of increasing cynicism, still derive a large part of our sustainance from friendships, and shared joys, and acts of kindness both large and small? Wouldn’t any genuinely realistic depiction of human beings include at least some of those things? Are we seeding our imaginary gardens solely with weeds, and forgetting that vegetables and flowers exist as well?

And what about that sense of wonder we used to hear so much about? In reading the latest fantasy novel have the scales fallen from your eyes -- have you seen the world anew? Having seen green, are the blues looking bluer, the reds looking redder? When was the last time you picked up a book and walked right into a “luminous setting?” Because I tell you quite frankly that such experiences are becoming less and less frequent for me. Are we becoming so jaded that soon we will no longer hunger for, or even be capable of appreciating, enchantment if it comes? Have we replaced our taste for the fabulous, the extraordinary, with one for mere sensationalism, which more often than not leaves us afterward with a sense that the world is an even duller place than it was before? If writers like Tolkien and LeGuin could tell stories of pain and loss, and still write passages that make our hearts soar, then why can’t we? Are our minds so closed, our hearts so hard, we are no longer capable of receiving new impressions, or perceiving new possibilities?

It is very easy to create a dramatic effect with an act of violence; it is very easy to grab a reader’s attention by hinting at all sorts of awful possibilities, and to keep it by delivering them. Often, a writer doesn’t even have to write about these things convincingly, readers are so conditioned these days to believe. A plot point so strained that it would strike any reader as ludicrously improbable if it led to a happy conclusion, is quickly accepted if the outcome is tragic. Believable human responses and reactions are instantly swept away in service to the great literary gods Conflict and Drama. (A hero can and should have flaws, but must they always be such convenient ones, obligingly appearing on stage on cue, then trotting off when no longer needed?) On the other hand, writing about beauty, integrity, hope, heroism, and all the kindlier emotions, when people are so ready to scoff -- that takes raw courage. Have we, as a community, become so demoralized, desensitized, and exhausted that we no longer have that courage, no longer even value it?

Above all, are we forgetting how to grow into true adults? Are we simply learning, instead, to go through the dreary rounds of our daily lives dragging our dead child-selves behind us? I sincerely hope not.


©2007, Teresa Edgerton

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Well, as you can see from the above, I still have many more questions on this subject than I have answers -- although I certainly do have very strong instincts and predispositions in the matter.

So I am very interested to hear what others think.