Pen to Paper: The Peril at the Inkwell

Today’s meditation is about the dangers of being a creative person in a time of political turmoil. Naturally, this applies equally well to most other walks of life, but we focus on writing here.

Chuck Wendig is a successful novelist. You can see his credits at his site, Terrible Minds. You’ll note some Star Wars titles among his own original novels. He blogs at his site, discussing the writing life and doling out wonderful free advice. He’s collected this advice into a few books, too, and he truly knows his art and craft. He also gets political on his site and on his Twitter account. He pulls absolutely no punches when opinionating; anyone the tiniest bit interested can easily know where they stand vis-á-vis Wendig’s politics. There should be no surprises.

But Wendig was surprised last Friday. The responses to his political stands drew more attention than Marvel Comics was willing to put up with. He told the story on Twitter and collected the tweets into readable form at his blog.

Before we go further into the morass, there are some players you need to be aware of. First, the Gamergate morons. Briefly: Gamergate is a war over who is truly a nerd. Women and minorities need not apply, those with liberal political philosophies are banned as are men who support women and minorities, and the tactics used against anyone the gaters hate include threats of rape and murder, and swatting. Second, the chairman of Marvel Entertainment is a Trump fan and was one of the men listed as running the Department of Veterans Affairs from outside the government. There are credible reports that he is homophobic, racist, and misogynistic. Exactly as one would expect of a friend of Trump.

I could all too easily broaden the scope and mention many more who have hurt and been hurt in creative industries, but I’m going to stay focused on Wendig. Even so, let us not forget the many others whose careers have been harmed and whose lives have been made a hellscape because of horrible people. Wendig notes some of them in his blog post.

Chuck Wendig is a successful white man in a white man’s America. But he doesn’t wear Trump’s red cap or the Klan’s white hood (interchangeable, of course), and he believes that everyone should be treated fairly, so he still ends up being targeted by people with room-temperature IQs and negative empathy scores. It took some time, but they finally scored a hit against him.

What does this mean for us? Two things, I think.

1) It’s not safe to play in someone else’s sandbox. There’s no inalienable right to write Star Wars books and comics. That’s a privately owned universe, and the owners get to pick and choose who gets to have fun telling those stories. Also, the nutjobs among the fans will punish you for stepping outside what they consider the lines of their fandom. A writer is better off in the long run to create his own characters and build a fortress from his backlist. Then, if you like, cross your moat to see about other people’s characters.

2) It is crucial that we all get out and vote Democratic, retaking as much of the Congress and as many governors mansions and state legislatures as possible. The so-called Blue Wave is primarily about voting, but the purpose of voting is to try to push the haters back under their rocks. To make racism and sexism and all the other hate-isms shameful again so that people can’t run about proudly declaring their hate. To rebuild an American society that looks less like Nazi Germany’s than ours presently does. (N.B.: I’ve read a lot of history, and I do not consider that I am being either melodramatic or hyperbolic.)

Nothing in Wendig’s sad tale urges us to give up or to make no waves. We have to be fearless with everything we write. Art is political. Use your art to everyone’s best advantage.

Fiction: The Fur Line

Anna gave her new teddy bear one more hug and then set him on her bed facing the semicircle of her other teddy bears.

“All of you start becoming friends now,” she instructed. “I’ll be back after I eat dinner.” And she skipped out of her room.

Five light-furred teddy bears looked at the newcomer in their midst. He was shaped much like they were and had a similar smile on his face. But there the resemblance ended.

His fur was dark brown.

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Fiction: About the Old Days

I hadn’t known anyone could keep talking while taking a breath. The woman across the way from me on the bus could do it, though.

She filled the aisle seat as full as could be. With the bus being at capacity, that meant she had a trapped audience in the window seat. He was a young man — younger than my 35 years then — and was dressed neatly enough. I sat by the window across from them; your grandma dozed on and off next to me. We were headed home after going to a funeral on her side of the family.

After the first two minutes the young man across the way didn’t so much as grunt to encourage the woman to keep talking or to make her think he was listening. He closed his eyes for a while, either trying to feign or attain sleep. She didn’t mind at all and he gave up on that and stared out the window.

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Fiction: Presidential Vote

“The question before the floor, during this special assembly, is whether to declare former President George W. Bush the worst president our great nation has ever suffered. Joe-Pete, you wanted to go first.”

Joe-Pete walked to the podium next to the leader’s throne.

“Thank you, Your Grand Imperial Exaltedness. As president, George W. Bush was fully complicit in these matters:

“1) lying about weapons of mass destruction in Iraq so as to start a war that has led to the deaths of tens of thousands of Iraqis and the execution of Saddam Hussein;

“2) torturing Iraqis in Abu Ghraib prison in Iraq;

“3) holding suspected al-Qaida soldiers in Guantanamo Bay and torturing them and not permitting them access to legal representation and keeping them there for years without charging them with any crimes; and

“4) wrecking the national economy to the especial detriment of the Jewish money cabal and generally bringing the rest of the nation down to our level here in Scratchass County.

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Fiction: Frontier Security: An Allegory

Mayor Harvey Pendleton banged his gavel a dozen more times. “Order! Order! I said, ‘Order!'”

The sanctuary, the largest available room in town other than the saloon, came to something like a hush.

“Now I know everyone’s upset, and I know most of you have never been to a town meetin’ in your lives, but there are rules about how this works. First and foremost is you speak when you’re spoken to and not otherwise. If you want to talk, you raise your hand and wait until I call on you, just like back in school. That’s the only way this can work.”

He cleared his throat and lowered his voice just a little. “Now,” he said, and he paused, thinking of what to say next. “Now. I know that everyone’s still atwitter about what happened last Tuesday. It was a dark day when the Fu Shi Gang came to our town and burned the hotel and shot all those folks. Why, I’d known some of them for years myself.” He cleared his throat again. “It’s hard. Hard losin’ ’em to that rotten rabble of Chinese.”

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