Writing about Death

Every writer makes the mistake of writing about death. Grandpa, a cousin, a friend, mom, dad, Tramp or Fluffers. And no one ever cares.

Writing is like the proverbially tree falling in the woods. Does it make a sound if no one's there to listen? The tree does. Writing does not. If writing is not for an audience, then it's meaningless or it's practice for the writer.

So if the writer attempts something that no one is going to care about, then he has wasted his time. The death of someone close to you is not important to a stranger. If we know the writer, we might say, "I'm sorry for your loss," but if we're the audience and have no attachment to the writer or the deceased, we scoff at how sentimental it is.

If you were to believe novice writers, every parent is a hero. Every friend is the greatest we could've asked for. Everyone is liked by everyone. None of that's true. Everyone hates everyone or at least gets annoyed by them. There are shitty friends and shitty parents.

So what do we do as writers when someone has died? We want to honor them and cause the world the same grief we feel (I guess we're cruel when sad). But when written a person becomes a character, neither real nor fake, and so someone who stars in a poem about death has been created to be abused for an emotional response from the reader.

That's not the writer's intent and readers can probably assume which deaths are real and created (as created deaths seem often more touching), but it makes the writing bad. The writing is sentimental, pointed from the beginning stab us in the ass until we cry either in pain or outrage.

So what do we do?

My solution is to not write about such things until we're older. When my grandma died, I had a cold. I drove the five hours to home, thinking "I better not hug grandpa or I'll be back in a month for another funeral." I thought this was morbidly funny. I also thought that when I got back to school, I'd write about the funeral honestly.

I could've too. My family, like most family, is full of kooks, failures and phonies. Everyone arrived and said their "I'm sorry for your loss"-es and "she was a wonderful woman"s, then they move into business talk. How are the kids? What's the procedure for the procession tomorrow? Where should we eat afterwards? My sister had separated from her husband the previous winter and divorced that summer but no one told my grandpa, so he said, "Hey, give Zach my best wishes. I hope to see him come Christmas." My sister smiled and looked to me, my mom, my dad, as her gaping mouth tried to shove out the words but she was too surprised. Finally she told him about the divorce and my grandpa felt awful. His wife had just died and he felt awful for the social faux pas!

When the funeral came the next day (as the previous events happened during the wake), everyone lied during their eulogies and the audience, all affected in the same way as the speakers, bought the lies. However, the audience of writing will not readily gobble up the lies.

Instead, we have to characterize the dead and the affected so well that they seem as alive to the readers as they are to the writer.

I, two time winner of Central College's short story contest and Calliope Prize recipient for creative contributions in literature and creative writing, am not a good enough writer to do that in a poem. I am not good enough to do that in a short story. I struggled to do it in my first novel!

I think about my favorite stories, short ones, novella, novels.  Catcher in the Rye, one kid dies but no one cares but the narrator. The Sun Also Rises, no one important dies. Jane Austen's work, no one dies. Charles Dickens, no one I care about dies. Thomas Wolfe's "The Lost Boy" someone dies!

Okay, why do we care that Grover, the narrator brother, dies? Because it's not sentimental! We spend three scenes learning about Grover before he dies. He cries and runs home to his daddy because a candy store owner is mean, he's mature and asks questions to strangers, he treats his sister to a meal with his earnings then pukes it all up and dies. But the narrator didn't know any of this before hand. That adds to the credibility of the story. We are learning about it in detail at the same time as the narrator.

But when Grover dies, there's that little "aww, that's a shame" moment but we're not in tears. And the story continues! The death is the middle! The characterization is the beginning and the death is the middle! That's absolutely epic. Novices end the story when someone dies or when someone breaks down and cries. But Thomas Wolfe stuck the death in the middle! Bravo.

So the end! The narrator, now in his 30s and knowing the story of Grover's death, returns to his childhood home. Someone else is living there and he asks to come in and sees the place and he has this little memory. A tiny memory.

The years dropped off like fallen leaves: the face came back again-the soft dark oval, the dark eyes, the soft brown berry on the neck, the raven hair, all bending down, approaching-the whole appearing to him ghost-wise, intent and instant.

"Now say it-- Grover!"

"Gova."

"No-- not Gova-- Grover! ... Say it!"

"Gova."

"Ah-h-- you didn't say it. You said Gova. Grover-now say it!"

"Gova."

"Look, I tell you what I'll do if you say it right. Would you like to go down to King's Highway? Would you like Grover to set you up? All right, then. If you say Grover and say it right, I'll take you to King's Highway and set you up to ice cream. Now say it right! Grover!"

"Gova."

"Ah-h, you-u. You're the craziest little old boy I ever did see. Can't you even say Grover?"

"Gova."

"Ah-h, you-u. Old Tongue-Tie, that's what you are.... Well, come on, then, I'll set you up anyway."

And that's where I cry. It's not some great big memory about him serving in world war two. It's not some great profession of love between brothers. It's not Grover standing up for the brother. It's none of the cliches, but instead a human moment! 

And you're not crying because you haven't read the story. So that should tell you that everything before this moment, everything before the death is important. 

But young writers don't get that. They think the climax is most important. No, no. The climax matters not if we haven't invested any emotion beforehand. Characterization is most important. 

The two have to work in proper proportion. Too much climax and not enough characterization as I've said, the readers don't care. Not enough climax and too much characterization and the readers feel unsatisfied when they put it down. They invested all this time and there wasn't enough of a reward. 

Ch. 24: Hug. Don’t Slap

Ghost Girl and I air-fived (since any contact was like sticking a butter knife in an electrical outlet) and we did a jig through tables, trash cans and the cash register. Then we got to talking and I found out her name was Sylvia Reed and she died in 1963 from a train accident. I preferred Ghost Girl.

“Boy, I tell ya: when I felt the heebie-jeebies I thought for sure you’d go poltergeist,” she said. She took a whiff from the bags of coffee grounds. She couldn’t smell anything, but maybe it sparked a memory of the smell.

“Don’t call me ‘Boy.’”

Ghost Girl pointed to her Mohawk which was standing upright for a change. “This guy was flat in my face and I could hardly see. I probably got hit by a truck or two on my way here but it was like something guided me to ya. Can ya believe it?”

I grabbed the counter and did pull-ups with my feet passing through the tile floor and my elbows going through the ledge. “Nope.” I cranked out twenty pull-ups before I hooked my legs on the counter and did sit-ups. My head went through the floor and it was a bit frightening since everything went black, but I had to keep in shape so my flab wouldn’t repulse all the ladies in life. “You don’t have to worry about me anyway,” I said.

“Right, you’ll be getting you’re life back,” she said and giggled through it so I could hardly understand. She reached in her trench coat pockets for something but couldn’t find it. She pulled out her mirror and set it on the table but it stayed glued to her palm.

“What are you looking for? Did you stuff it in your panties? Maybe your bra? They seem like convenient storage.”

“Too uncomfortable. I should’ve worn pants. You got anything in yours?” she asked. She spanked me and it shocked us both.

“Stop that!” I twitched but she giggled. I stayed on the other side of the hall, by the stairs, so we had to yell to communicate. I didn’t want any more shocks.

I dug in my pockets since I hadn’t before. There was a gum wrapper and a purple pencil with the eraser missing.  It was a shame my wallet had fallen out during the accident. I really wanted some skittles from the vending machine. The pencil’s lead was half-in but even when I turned it upside down, it didn’t fall. I shook until I stabbed myself in the lip—and it actually hurt! “I’ve got enough to write the next Great American Poem. But it has to fit on this gum wrapper. Maybe it’ll be a haiku.”

“Don’t forget the kireji,” someone said from behind. I turned around and there was Anita. She had changed shirts and put on pants but she still wore that green smock. Her glasses were in her hair.

“Thank god you’re back.” I went to hug her but she stiff-armed me in the nose. It wasn’t anything like when Ghost Girl touched me—this was like real physical pain.

“I’ve been back,” Anita snapped. “I returned to watch you squirm. Did she pull you from your torture?”

“You mean my visit with Mr. Shadow? It was hardly torture. He was a bit awkward but loners always are.” I wiggled my nose to make sure it was its usual perfect shape but the windows weren’t reflective enough to let me check. “I don’t really know how I got out of there. Bunch of other shadows were clawing at my pants. I told them I’d strip for them if they just asked.”

“It should’ve lasted another twelve hours,” she mumbled.

“Hey, guy,” Sylvia said and walked towards us. “Who’s your bud? Did you seduce a pretty little spirit last night?”

Anita stepped towards her with a glowing hand. She cocked it back as if to slap Ghost Girl but I rammed Anita. I meant to tackle her to the ground but she stood firm and I hung from her arm like a length of string. She only stopped her slap out of surprise. “What are you doing?” she barked.  

“Seriously, guy. You ought to learn some manners.”

“Why are you trying to exorcise her?” I yelled at Anita.

“She’s been here for nearly fifty years. It’s time to move on.” She kept swinging her hand but I wrapped myself around her arm like a sloth and Sylvia stepped back.

“You want to do what, Missy?” Ghost Girl said. She floated back to the coffee shop.

Fifty feet and a counter were between Anita and Sylvia but Anita closed that distance in an instant and stood in the counter, ready to slap Sylvia with a glowing hand. I was still on her arm and feeling a little sick from being upside-down, jostled and teleported!

I wobbled in between the two girls. “STOP!” I yelled at the spinning room.

“Out of the way!” Anita shouted and shoved me but I wouldn’t move. Anita lowered her hand and Ghost Girl floated outside. I watched her through the window until she was a dot in the clouds.

“If we had more time, I’d yell at you some more.”

“You can slap me if you want. It might sober me up,” I said.

She grabbed my wrist and yanked me through the window. “Come on. We have to get to your funeral.” We floated in the opposite direction of Sylvia.

Mass Effect 3 Ending

I just beat Mass Effect 3 and most people hate the ending, but I loved it. Yes, everyone will get one of three endings that are slight variations on each other and the thousand choices made through the series will not impact the end. What did you want them to do? Give you a thousand different endings?

I chose the middle road of synthesis. It wasn't a perfect ending but it was a great capstone for a great series. As much as I like it though, I am not interested in having movies, TV shows, comics, books, etc adding onto it. I know some are already done but they're not really worth it. They're fame comes from the games' fame. Anyway, here are my pros and cons of the ending.

The choices had an impact before the ending. The choices were half the fun of the game. I would spend three hours just wandering around the citadel and exploring space for artifacts and resources before jumping into a mission that involved shooting things. Towards the end, yes, all my time was focused on shooting thing BUT it was also broken up by talking to my crew. The choices affected who I had on my time, who survived, who joined the fight, yadda yadda yadda. But no, none of that had a huge impact on the end. Stop bitching about it. It wasn't going to anyway unless you wanted this game delayed 10 more years so that a thousand endings could be created.

I did all this because I care about the ME universe and characters and my crew members. The characterization is remarkable except James. He's a bit light. EDI could've had a lot more done with her. So could the new Liara. However, the overall story had impact because there were so many diverse characters and none were melodramatic. Everyone had their moments of sentimentality, of depression, but 70% of the dialogue has either plot movement or jokes. The overall seriousness of the story only hits home because at crucial moments characters make jokes. Even just before Captain Anderson dies, he says "It's been forever since I've just sat down."

We only saw about four spectres (two turians, two humans) so it seems like the first game's story wasn't all that important except the Reapers part. The characterization was important especially for returning characters. But the overall story with the Prothean beacon, the visions, etc is ignored except for a brief moment in the third where there's another beacon. Even the Reapers' origin is forgotten it seems. In ME1, sovereign says Reapers are organic and synthetic. But that gets ignored through the rest of the series. It has vague implications when they talk about harvesting organics to make more Reapers. I guess that was the Catalyst's way of moving forward with evolution but it seems a bit screwy to me.

The overall philosophy of the Reapers is contradictory. "We must destroy to preserve order because organics represent chaos." Yet throughout the 50,000-year cycle, organics always follow the same pattern. It's true that in ME1, Sovereign says that organics are given tools to let them move forward along a predictable pattern, but it doesn't account for humanities initial evolution (pre-relay) or for a species' attempt to create synthetics which are supposed to destroy everything. Why can't the Reapers destroy the synthetics and not the organics? Why are synthetics always going to destroy organics? Though the synthetics with the Reapers help, the Mass Effect team has been destroying synthetics with ease. Maybe the geth are too young to be a true threat but it seems hoaky to me. And if the Reapers pushed species to this point of evolution and it always comes out that the organics create these awful synthetics, then maybe it's the Reapers' fault that synthetics end up being evil.

Hmm, it's late and I can't think of anything else. I'm too tired.