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brigdhThere's a new meme which encourages one to 'explicate your ship/OTP paradigm' and I am, unsurprisingly, fascinated by it. It's a topic that I adore- along with 'explicate your OTC paradigm'- and reading other people's essays has been amazingly interesting and thought-provoking. You should all go and read Phoebe's essay in particular, and not just because I would never have been able to put my own thoughts into coherent order if I hadn't read hers first. ETA: And now Dorian's essay is available! Read that one as well.
I also expect everyone to write one of these yourselves. Not enough people have been doing it! I want more lovely essays to read and consider.
I don't want to repeat anything Phoebe's already said (or Dorian, or Rana, for that matter, who have also said scarily accurate things, and clearly all of our paradigms overlap in significant ways), but a vital part of how I approach relationships and stories and the world is through the experience of its beauty: constant and pervasive, inexhaustible though often ephemeral. I don't mean just a pretty flower or painting, but that startling, overwhelming emotion of seeing something as simple as the curve of a streetlamp against the straight lines and right angles of building; the sort of beauty that shocks. My reaction to this beauty is to celebrate it, which might be nothing more than to smile, or to point it out to someone else nearby, or to attempt to capture it in words to put into a story or livejournal post later. It's not quite right to say I want to create it; I just want to show it to other people, and make them aware that it exists, and that maybe we should do something about it, such as helping it to continue. There's a Rumi quote that captures this feeling for me: "Near roses, sing".
And this beauty can be in nature or in art, but it can also be in people, individuals. For me, when I have this reaction to a person, it's never about a surface beauty or what they look like; it's always some aspect of their personality. Intelligence, or humor, or kindness, or any wordless quality that is- beautiful is no longer the right word. But something that is there, and real, and which makes the world a better place because it exists. The things which feel like they should exist, but which unfortunately do not nearly often enough.
There are different ways to deal with these experiences, and particularly the possibility of losing them. The one I go for, the one I have my characters act out over and over, is to fight to preserve whatever that special quality is, once they've found it. It's not quite the Hallmark and romantic comedy version of the True Love narrative, though they sound similar when summarized. But the True Love story goes: you find someone special, the two of you fall in love in one big, glorious moment, and you are forever afterward healed and made whole by this relationship. Whereas mine departs from that on at least three levels.
First of all, it's not about the relationship, it's about the individuals in it. That's sort of a petty distinction, but what I mean is that neither character expects to be changed or transformed in any way by this relationship. S/he simply has another person who s/he likes (with or without sex; this paradigm totally works for platonic relationships, though I usually prefer to write ones with sex in them. By 'likes' I only mean "This person is an example of what I find to be good in the world, and who I do not want to change or leave or die") and who, therefore, s/he attempts to protect or insulate from anything that would diminish those qualities. It's not about expecting to find yourself better off; it's about helping someone else to be themselves. Which sounds really self-sacrificing, but it's not. If you garden, do you consider the weeding and watering and so on to be a sacrifice, or is it just part of the experience of joy from the flowers and plants? You like something, you want it to continue; to me it feels like an entirely natural reaction, if not responsibility, to help it to do so. If you want the universe to contain certain things, no one else is going to create those changes for you. You have to do it yourself. I think this is why my characters don't experience the failure of finding transcendence in a relationship; transcendence is way more than they're looking for. Generally, they won't even talk about "love", or act out the stereotypical activities of romance; that's something they perceive as bigger and more binding than what they do. They might sort of sidle up to it and look at it out of the corner of their eyes, but actually talking about it would be too much.
Secondly, it's really not about the one moment, and then the happily-ever-after. My paradigm is centered around the mundane ever-after, the continuing struggle and effort to find what works and a balance, which is why I don't write nearly as many first-time stories as established-relationship ones. The big grand moment when Hisoka throws himself in the fire for Tsuzuki is lovely and tear-jerking, but won't mean anything if it isn't followed up with a million days where Tsuzuki is slightly sad and Hisoka tells him he's being an idiot. Anyone can be helpful once, in the big dramatic moment; my OTP paradigm is about finding the characters who can be helpful to one another over and over again, who know how to fix the problem without it needing to be spoken or made into melodrama. So, there's Hisoka and Tsuzuki; there's Sanzo brooding in the rain and Goku knowing to come make him play cards, or Gojyo to share a cigarette, or Hakkai to say something that sounds superficial but isn't; there's Richard knowing how to distract Alec from a dangerous mood. I don't want stories about the big moment of the True Love narrative because, really, that's easy. It's boring. I like stories about the hard part, the ceaseless, grueling everyday after, and the characters who are willing to keep up the effort. And I think this is part of why The Fall of the Kings bugs me so much. (Highlight text for plot spoilers) Because I really cannot deal with Basil acting to drive Theron more mad than he already is. And I know, I know: there's all sorts of extenuating circumstances and that's sort of the point of the whole book anyway- but to deliberately make it harder for one's partner to function is so exactly the opposite of what I want characters in love to do that it drives me to flailing and I lose all pity or sympathy for him.
Thirdly (hee, I feel like a second-grader writing an essay), it's really, really, really not about healing. Christ, this trope drives me crazy. Not necessarily because I think making someone whole again is impossible, but why on earth would anyone want to? And particularly the type of character I tend to go for. They are broken because of what they have been through, and because of choices they have made in response to their circumstances, and to erase the traces of that strikes me as erasing the reality or importance of their pasts and decisions. And really, it would diminish who they are to heal them: Tsuzuki is capable of immense acts of kindness because he fears he's inhuman; Hisoka is strong because of his drive to prove himself; Sanzo is fierce and independent because of choices he made when the only options were kill someone or die himself, trust himself or trust the oblivious, hidebound monks; Alec is fascinating because he wouldn't accept his expected behavioral roles, whether of his family or class. All of these characters had easier routes they could have gone, but they each wanted something else so much that they went the hard way instead, generally in the face of forces capable of destroying them. To 'cure' them of that choice... it makes me feel icky, to say the least. I'd much rather see a relationship that confirms them in their decision and perhaps offers some strength and stability to help them act on it in healthier ways, rather than one that changes it or erases the need for it. And here I could quote Hemingway's "many are stronger at the broken places" or![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
matociquala's "the thing about broken edges is they cut", both of which are totally part of the appeal for me, but even more fundamentally I think that people become who they are through the mistakes they make and the things they have survived. Why, why is it considered such a good thing to take those distinctions away and turn everyone into cookie-cutter paragons of normalcy and wholesomeness? These characters already suffered to escape that and remain themselves once; don't force it on them and then treat it like it isn't a tragedy.
In essence, my OTPs are about characters who react to one another in that astonishing beauty sense, who stubbornly hang onto those compelling qualities despite rationally knowing that a different choice is easier, and who help one another to keep up the fight. It's not the True Love paradigm, because it's specifically not about finding the meaning of life in someone else; it's about those grand sorts of meaning of life being unreachable and accepting one small, selfish piece of goodness instead. It is utterly fundamental to my outlook that people must create or preserve their own beauty and goodness for themselves, because it is the only way to get those things; they don't exist naturally in the universe without human participation, and no one else will make it for you. My characters don't always get a happy ending (though I like to reward their making the effort because I'm fluffy like that) and they're usually aware that they can't have one, because no matter how long one might be able to preserve his/her partner in the face of an uncooperative universe, in the end everyone dies. (Well, maybe not shinigami. But even they do have to move on, eventually.) It doesn't matter though, because it's not really about the happy ending. It's about struggling to keep something good alive. They might fail- they will fail- but they tried, and maybe they kept it alive for one instant longer. Beauty is everywhere, but so is ugliness and pain, and I don't think there's much anyone can do to shift the overall balance. But I like characters who are willing to run headlong into that brick wall anyway, because it does occasionally make a difference for one moment, one place, one person, and even if it doesn't, when you go down, at least you went down fighting. That's the dynamic I'm interested in.
I also expect everyone to write one of these yourselves. Not enough people have been doing it! I want more lovely essays to read and consider.
I don't want to repeat anything Phoebe's already said (or Dorian, or Rana, for that matter, who have also said scarily accurate things, and clearly all of our paradigms overlap in significant ways), but a vital part of how I approach relationships and stories and the world is through the experience of its beauty: constant and pervasive, inexhaustible though often ephemeral. I don't mean just a pretty flower or painting, but that startling, overwhelming emotion of seeing something as simple as the curve of a streetlamp against the straight lines and right angles of building; the sort of beauty that shocks. My reaction to this beauty is to celebrate it, which might be nothing more than to smile, or to point it out to someone else nearby, or to attempt to capture it in words to put into a story or livejournal post later. It's not quite right to say I want to create it; I just want to show it to other people, and make them aware that it exists, and that maybe we should do something about it, such as helping it to continue. There's a Rumi quote that captures this feeling for me: "Near roses, sing".
And this beauty can be in nature or in art, but it can also be in people, individuals. For me, when I have this reaction to a person, it's never about a surface beauty or what they look like; it's always some aspect of their personality. Intelligence, or humor, or kindness, or any wordless quality that is- beautiful is no longer the right word. But something that is there, and real, and which makes the world a better place because it exists. The things which feel like they should exist, but which unfortunately do not nearly often enough.
There are different ways to deal with these experiences, and particularly the possibility of losing them. The one I go for, the one I have my characters act out over and over, is to fight to preserve whatever that special quality is, once they've found it. It's not quite the Hallmark and romantic comedy version of the True Love narrative, though they sound similar when summarized. But the True Love story goes: you find someone special, the two of you fall in love in one big, glorious moment, and you are forever afterward healed and made whole by this relationship. Whereas mine departs from that on at least three levels.
First of all, it's not about the relationship, it's about the individuals in it. That's sort of a petty distinction, but what I mean is that neither character expects to be changed or transformed in any way by this relationship. S/he simply has another person who s/he likes (with or without sex; this paradigm totally works for platonic relationships, though I usually prefer to write ones with sex in them. By 'likes' I only mean "This person is an example of what I find to be good in the world, and who I do not want to change or leave or die") and who, therefore, s/he attempts to protect or insulate from anything that would diminish those qualities. It's not about expecting to find yourself better off; it's about helping someone else to be themselves. Which sounds really self-sacrificing, but it's not. If you garden, do you consider the weeding and watering and so on to be a sacrifice, or is it just part of the experience of joy from the flowers and plants? You like something, you want it to continue; to me it feels like an entirely natural reaction, if not responsibility, to help it to do so. If you want the universe to contain certain things, no one else is going to create those changes for you. You have to do it yourself. I think this is why my characters don't experience the failure of finding transcendence in a relationship; transcendence is way more than they're looking for. Generally, they won't even talk about "love", or act out the stereotypical activities of romance; that's something they perceive as bigger and more binding than what they do. They might sort of sidle up to it and look at it out of the corner of their eyes, but actually talking about it would be too much.
Secondly, it's really not about the one moment, and then the happily-ever-after. My paradigm is centered around the mundane ever-after, the continuing struggle and effort to find what works and a balance, which is why I don't write nearly as many first-time stories as established-relationship ones. The big grand moment when Hisoka throws himself in the fire for Tsuzuki is lovely and tear-jerking, but won't mean anything if it isn't followed up with a million days where Tsuzuki is slightly sad and Hisoka tells him he's being an idiot. Anyone can be helpful once, in the big dramatic moment; my OTP paradigm is about finding the characters who can be helpful to one another over and over again, who know how to fix the problem without it needing to be spoken or made into melodrama. So, there's Hisoka and Tsuzuki; there's Sanzo brooding in the rain and Goku knowing to come make him play cards, or Gojyo to share a cigarette, or Hakkai to say something that sounds superficial but isn't; there's Richard knowing how to distract Alec from a dangerous mood. I don't want stories about the big moment of the True Love narrative because, really, that's easy. It's boring. I like stories about the hard part, the ceaseless, grueling everyday after, and the characters who are willing to keep up the effort. And I think this is part of why The Fall of the Kings bugs me so much. (Highlight text for plot spoilers) Because I really cannot deal with Basil acting to drive Theron more mad than he already is. And I know, I know: there's all sorts of extenuating circumstances and that's sort of the point of the whole book anyway- but to deliberately make it harder for one's partner to function is so exactly the opposite of what I want characters in love to do that it drives me to flailing and I lose all pity or sympathy for him.
Thirdly (hee, I feel like a second-grader writing an essay), it's really, really, really not about healing. Christ, this trope drives me crazy. Not necessarily because I think making someone whole again is impossible, but why on earth would anyone want to? And particularly the type of character I tend to go for. They are broken because of what they have been through, and because of choices they have made in response to their circumstances, and to erase the traces of that strikes me as erasing the reality or importance of their pasts and decisions. And really, it would diminish who they are to heal them: Tsuzuki is capable of immense acts of kindness because he fears he's inhuman; Hisoka is strong because of his drive to prove himself; Sanzo is fierce and independent because of choices he made when the only options were kill someone or die himself, trust himself or trust the oblivious, hidebound monks; Alec is fascinating because he wouldn't accept his expected behavioral roles, whether of his family or class. All of these characters had easier routes they could have gone, but they each wanted something else so much that they went the hard way instead, generally in the face of forces capable of destroying them. To 'cure' them of that choice... it makes me feel icky, to say the least. I'd much rather see a relationship that confirms them in their decision and perhaps offers some strength and stability to help them act on it in healthier ways, rather than one that changes it or erases the need for it. And here I could quote Hemingway's "many are stronger at the broken places" or
matociquala's "the thing about broken edges is they cut", both of which are totally part of the appeal for me, but even more fundamentally I think that people become who they are through the mistakes they make and the things they have survived. Why, why is it considered such a good thing to take those distinctions away and turn everyone into cookie-cutter paragons of normalcy and wholesomeness? These characters already suffered to escape that and remain themselves once; don't force it on them and then treat it like it isn't a tragedy.In essence, my OTPs are about characters who react to one another in that astonishing beauty sense, who stubbornly hang onto those compelling qualities despite rationally knowing that a different choice is easier, and who help one another to keep up the fight. It's not the True Love paradigm, because it's specifically not about finding the meaning of life in someone else; it's about those grand sorts of meaning of life being unreachable and accepting one small, selfish piece of goodness instead. It is utterly fundamental to my outlook that people must create or preserve their own beauty and goodness for themselves, because it is the only way to get those things; they don't exist naturally in the universe without human participation, and no one else will make it for you. My characters don't always get a happy ending (though I like to reward their making the effort because I'm fluffy like that) and they're usually aware that they can't have one, because no matter how long one might be able to preserve his/her partner in the face of an uncooperative universe, in the end everyone dies. (Well, maybe not shinigami. But even they do have to move on, eventually.) It doesn't matter though, because it's not really about the happy ending. It's about struggling to keep something good alive. They might fail- they will fail- but they tried, and maybe they kept it alive for one instant longer. Beauty is everywhere, but so is ugliness and pain, and I don't think there's much anyone can do to shift the overall balance. But I like characters who are willing to run headlong into that brick wall anyway, because it does occasionally make a difference for one moment, one place, one person, and even if it doesn't, when you go down, at least you went down fighting. That's the dynamic I'm interested in.
