happiness bites
So I have a hard time writing something genuinely *happy*. Not like that's a big secret... There's some measure of angst in almost all my stories, even when there's happiness, and that actually makes it more tangible to me. It's that murky tracing of risk and loss around happiness and fulfillment, the bedrock of realism that sharpens its edges. That makes it personal, too. Happiness can't be a formula that fits all, it has to be grounded in the unique history and needs of the characters; it doesn't exist in a vacuum, without the context that makes it special and meaningful to them. And because of all that, it feels alien to me to take just the dark part of a story, or just the light and sweetness, as if life could be parceled and made manageable that way. (As a reader, I'm less fussy though. :) I can wallow in pure mush or let myself in for a trip through hell with no bright spark whatsoever at the end of the tunnel, depending on my mood of the moment.)
Balancing these things is a matter of honing perceptions to me, of technique and critical consciousness and whatnot. Of not slipping too far into the groove of one single mood and losing track of context and life's obnoxious complexities. Most of the time, I feel like I've got a handle on that. But, but... writing absolute happiness is a whole 'nother ballgame - and here I'm approaching my problem.
Yes, it's all about the Sam/Frodo Reunion story that I'm determined to write (and working on at intervals). This now, *this* is *daunting.* More so than going into Mordor and wondering what it really feels like to be eaten up from within by a shapeless, devouring force like the One Ring. I could say that the darkness in Tolkien is darker than anything I've encountered, and therefore the light is brighter, almost unbearably so, if that didn't sound so bland. But that's about the scope of it.
I'm not talking fluff, this is about *bliss*. And that's something as unsafe as the darkest terror imaginable. Oh, I don't think their reunion will be all happiness and joy. They've got a long and complex history and a lot of baggage to work through. But when all's said and done, there's bliss. A moment or an eternity, that difference hardly matters in the Undying Lands.
What I mean by that... Bliss is not a state of balance, a comfortable order of things, it's quite the opposite. It's ecstasy, and being ripped out of reason, out of expectations and second thoughts, out of the known. That's what makes it complete in itself, no matter how long it does or doesn't last. And here I have to quote Roland Barthes who to my mind has made the most daring and precise attempt to talk in theory (or at least in fragments of theory) about the pleasures and the risks of reading and writing. (All quotes below from "The Pleasure of the Text".) He writes:
Text of pleasure: the text that contents, fills, grants euphoria; the text that comes from culture and does not break with it, is linked to a comfortable practice of reading. Text of bliss: the text that imposes a state of loss, the text that discomforts (perhaps to the point of a certain boredom), unsettles the reader's historical, cultural, psychological assumptions, the consistency of his [well, *her*...] tastes, values, memories, brings to a crisis his relation with language.
Yeah, a tall order indeed, and confusing, if not contradictory, at first glance. Why shouldn't happiness and pleasure be enough? Why bliss, when it isn't exactly pleasant? (It might help to know that in the original French, his word for bliss is jouissance which also translates as orgasm. ;) My understanding of Barthes has a lot to do with my own reading and writing experiences, and so what he says makes sense to me. For instance, it's often the unexpected in a story - whether it's an unexpected development, or an image, a turn of phrase - that gives me the biggest thrills and brings it alive, drives it home. Like it's touching me in a place I wasn't aware of before. There's something unique to it then which gets me in touch with a new perspective, a new side to the characters perhaps, and that's what turns it into an experience of its own. There can be something jarring or disturbing about it, but that's directly linked to the intensity of it. And of course it's slippery - what excites and thrills me might be confusing or boring to the next reader, because they're coming from a different place, and it might not have the same effect on me when I read it again in a changed context.
Anyway. :) I want to see Frodo and Sam completely happy and *complete* together (no one deserves it more than they do... :), and I want it to be *real*. Not just a comforting daydream I'm pursuing to balance or escape all the hurt and loss in their story. I want to get in touch with something absolutely unique to them and translate it so that others can share it. (That's the whole point of writing, isn't it? Sharing, or at least the hope of it. So color me idealistic. ;) But while there can be moments, glimpses of such happiness in countless stories and settings, their reunion turns it into a state of being. That's what it's all about, even if their lives continue in the usual, more checkered and shaded fashion: this is the core, and the purpose of such a story for me.
And how real can it be? (How can it be real at all?) Real as in, material, physical, tangible beyond the cognitive process of writing or reading. Fuller than that, embodied. Barthes says, "we also have a body of bliss consisting solely of erotic relations", and I believe as he does that texts can touch, spark, delineate this body of bliss. (Though being the transgressive thing it is, I might just as well call it the soul, and it's what I think of when I listen to Yoda saying "luminous beings are we"). Sensation made language made sensation again ("the language lined with flesh", as Barthes calls it). And because it relies on the unexpected, the fleeting map of this body isn't consistent with our everyday image of it, or of other bodies.
And if all this sounds cryptic and complicated - that's what thinking about it analytically does, and translating it into linear reasoning to capture the joyous *shock*. The thing, the experience itself is simple and direct and whole even as it's disruptive. But how to get there in writing? Sure enough, Barthes exasperates me when he says, "pleasure can be expressed in words, bliss cannot (...); it cannot be spoken except between the lines". Well, dang. *g* Does that mean I just have to muddle along and hope that something extraordinary will strike when I'm not looking, not consciously trying? I guess that's part of it, but I can't really trick myself out of knowing what I want to write. Writing fiction is never a fully controlled process, but it's never entirely uncontrolled either.
And I can't do this in a linear fashion... sit down and keep at it, write a coherent story from start to finish. That doesn't seem right. I feel more like a clueless seismograph, picking up on fragments that come as they please, and I'm never quite sure if I'm tuning in on the right frequency. One of the few things I do know is that it's all about a happiness that bites and rocks to the core.
So here I am, wondering why sheer happiness is so hard to write, why bliss isn't exactly an openly favored genre in fanfic, why some of us feel slightly apologetic about being radically, drastically joyful... Why pure happiness is in some ways more controversial than the dark stuff and the usual subjects of controversy.
An open-ended list of possible reasons...
* It's private. Is there anything more private and deeply personal than our happiest moments? How to convey that and not talk about our families, our loves, our solitudes and discoveries? Or even about the fleeting hopes and dreams that only show up in the margins of our vision. We all live our moments of bliss, but share them? Share them through stories when they're not even about *us* and, what's more, about characters who are so very different?
* It's overused and worn out like a flea-bitten old couch. And here we get to the other end of the spectrum... Countless clichés clutter the notion of happiness. From roaring sunsets to stock phrases. And while there might be some common notions that most of us associate with pleasure, clichés beset them like gnats, and they're easy traps to fall into. Can they be exploded somehow?
* It's shallow and less interesting. Is there suspense and uncertainty to it, something that will keep a reader wondering, anticipating, as there usually is when angst abounds? Or is happiness, quite simply, dull and boring? (Really? It's not like we usually get bored by happy experiences in real life. Then again, different rules apply to RL and written realities.) Is happiness a less complex sentiment than, say, grief or fear? Does it come without shadings?
* It's transitory. Bliss doesn't last, or it would become pleasure. But to try and write bliss - isn't that like plunking it in concrete, or pouring it into a false form? Does the writing drain away its live core?
* It's almost impossible to believe in. (Unless you're a teenager, maybe. ;) To some extent, we all learn how to protect against potential hurt and disappointments, and so we protect ourselves against hope too. Absolute happiness? Never happens. Hope is dangerous business. (Oh, and that's one of the reasons why I love Sam... he's got the courage to take that risk again and again and again.) We tend to package our hopes in a way that makes them less risky. Maybe writing bliss means taking a hard look at everything we think we can't have...
Hmm. Think I'm done rambling about it, for now. If anyone has thoughts or trepidations or experiences to share, please *do* share them!
Balancing these things is a matter of honing perceptions to me, of technique and critical consciousness and whatnot. Of not slipping too far into the groove of one single mood and losing track of context and life's obnoxious complexities. Most of the time, I feel like I've got a handle on that. But, but... writing absolute happiness is a whole 'nother ballgame - and here I'm approaching my problem.
Yes, it's all about the Sam/Frodo Reunion story that I'm determined to write (and working on at intervals). This now, *this* is *daunting.* More so than going into Mordor and wondering what it really feels like to be eaten up from within by a shapeless, devouring force like the One Ring. I could say that the darkness in Tolkien is darker than anything I've encountered, and therefore the light is brighter, almost unbearably so, if that didn't sound so bland. But that's about the scope of it.
I'm not talking fluff, this is about *bliss*. And that's something as unsafe as the darkest terror imaginable. Oh, I don't think their reunion will be all happiness and joy. They've got a long and complex history and a lot of baggage to work through. But when all's said and done, there's bliss. A moment or an eternity, that difference hardly matters in the Undying Lands.
What I mean by that... Bliss is not a state of balance, a comfortable order of things, it's quite the opposite. It's ecstasy, and being ripped out of reason, out of expectations and second thoughts, out of the known. That's what makes it complete in itself, no matter how long it does or doesn't last. And here I have to quote Roland Barthes who to my mind has made the most daring and precise attempt to talk in theory (or at least in fragments of theory) about the pleasures and the risks of reading and writing. (All quotes below from "The Pleasure of the Text".) He writes:
Text of pleasure: the text that contents, fills, grants euphoria; the text that comes from culture and does not break with it, is linked to a comfortable practice of reading. Text of bliss: the text that imposes a state of loss, the text that discomforts (perhaps to the point of a certain boredom), unsettles the reader's historical, cultural, psychological assumptions, the consistency of his [well, *her*...] tastes, values, memories, brings to a crisis his relation with language.
Yeah, a tall order indeed, and confusing, if not contradictory, at first glance. Why shouldn't happiness and pleasure be enough? Why bliss, when it isn't exactly pleasant? (It might help to know that in the original French, his word for bliss is jouissance which also translates as orgasm. ;) My understanding of Barthes has a lot to do with my own reading and writing experiences, and so what he says makes sense to me. For instance, it's often the unexpected in a story - whether it's an unexpected development, or an image, a turn of phrase - that gives me the biggest thrills and brings it alive, drives it home. Like it's touching me in a place I wasn't aware of before. There's something unique to it then which gets me in touch with a new perspective, a new side to the characters perhaps, and that's what turns it into an experience of its own. There can be something jarring or disturbing about it, but that's directly linked to the intensity of it. And of course it's slippery - what excites and thrills me might be confusing or boring to the next reader, because they're coming from a different place, and it might not have the same effect on me when I read it again in a changed context.
Anyway. :) I want to see Frodo and Sam completely happy and *complete* together (no one deserves it more than they do... :), and I want it to be *real*. Not just a comforting daydream I'm pursuing to balance or escape all the hurt and loss in their story. I want to get in touch with something absolutely unique to them and translate it so that others can share it. (That's the whole point of writing, isn't it? Sharing, or at least the hope of it. So color me idealistic. ;) But while there can be moments, glimpses of such happiness in countless stories and settings, their reunion turns it into a state of being. That's what it's all about, even if their lives continue in the usual, more checkered and shaded fashion: this is the core, and the purpose of such a story for me.
And how real can it be? (How can it be real at all?) Real as in, material, physical, tangible beyond the cognitive process of writing or reading. Fuller than that, embodied. Barthes says, "we also have a body of bliss consisting solely of erotic relations", and I believe as he does that texts can touch, spark, delineate this body of bliss. (Though being the transgressive thing it is, I might just as well call it the soul, and it's what I think of when I listen to Yoda saying "luminous beings are we"). Sensation made language made sensation again ("the language lined with flesh", as Barthes calls it). And because it relies on the unexpected, the fleeting map of this body isn't consistent with our everyday image of it, or of other bodies.
And if all this sounds cryptic and complicated - that's what thinking about it analytically does, and translating it into linear reasoning to capture the joyous *shock*. The thing, the experience itself is simple and direct and whole even as it's disruptive. But how to get there in writing? Sure enough, Barthes exasperates me when he says, "pleasure can be expressed in words, bliss cannot (...); it cannot be spoken except between the lines". Well, dang. *g* Does that mean I just have to muddle along and hope that something extraordinary will strike when I'm not looking, not consciously trying? I guess that's part of it, but I can't really trick myself out of knowing what I want to write. Writing fiction is never a fully controlled process, but it's never entirely uncontrolled either.
And I can't do this in a linear fashion... sit down and keep at it, write a coherent story from start to finish. That doesn't seem right. I feel more like a clueless seismograph, picking up on fragments that come as they please, and I'm never quite sure if I'm tuning in on the right frequency. One of the few things I do know is that it's all about a happiness that bites and rocks to the core.
So here I am, wondering why sheer happiness is so hard to write, why bliss isn't exactly an openly favored genre in fanfic, why some of us feel slightly apologetic about being radically, drastically joyful... Why pure happiness is in some ways more controversial than the dark stuff and the usual subjects of controversy.
An open-ended list of possible reasons...
* It's private. Is there anything more private and deeply personal than our happiest moments? How to convey that and not talk about our families, our loves, our solitudes and discoveries? Or even about the fleeting hopes and dreams that only show up in the margins of our vision. We all live our moments of bliss, but share them? Share them through stories when they're not even about *us* and, what's more, about characters who are so very different?
* It's overused and worn out like a flea-bitten old couch. And here we get to the other end of the spectrum... Countless clichés clutter the notion of happiness. From roaring sunsets to stock phrases. And while there might be some common notions that most of us associate with pleasure, clichés beset them like gnats, and they're easy traps to fall into. Can they be exploded somehow?
* It's shallow and less interesting. Is there suspense and uncertainty to it, something that will keep a reader wondering, anticipating, as there usually is when angst abounds? Or is happiness, quite simply, dull and boring? (Really? It's not like we usually get bored by happy experiences in real life. Then again, different rules apply to RL and written realities.) Is happiness a less complex sentiment than, say, grief or fear? Does it come without shadings?
* It's transitory. Bliss doesn't last, or it would become pleasure. But to try and write bliss - isn't that like plunking it in concrete, or pouring it into a false form? Does the writing drain away its live core?
* It's almost impossible to believe in. (Unless you're a teenager, maybe. ;) To some extent, we all learn how to protect against potential hurt and disappointments, and so we protect ourselves against hope too. Absolute happiness? Never happens. Hope is dangerous business. (Oh, and that's one of the reasons why I love Sam... he's got the courage to take that risk again and again and again.) We tend to package our hopes in a way that makes them less risky. Maybe writing bliss means taking a hard look at everything we think we can't have...
Hmm. Think I'm done rambling about it, for now. If anyone has thoughts or trepidations or experiences to share, please *do* share them!