The Fictional Retreat
This was something that's been swimming about in my head for the past few years, but a Neil Gaiman article that Ruby just sent me has got me in a deep-writing mood (I should be using this energy to write that Personal Reflection paper for Women's Studies, but then the magic will be gone).
LJ cut for LONG.
I think it's safe to say that anyone who has ever been enthralled by a book or a movie (or a video game, if you're that type) has mused at some point or another about the idea of fiction as an escape from the real world. Whether it's following amazing characters to fantastic worlds or pitying people with worse problems than you, the fact remains that It's Not Real. And that's why you feel safe in those worlds.
Which begs the question: what does this concept mean to people of different ages? Young children who grow up with Disney movies and the like are more likely to love these worlds because childhood innocence would lead them to believe that they actually exist. On the other hand, a child might be indirectly forced into these retreat worlds by the outside being a genuinely harsh place. Maybe they've lost a parent, or their household is an unstable environment, so of COURSE they'd find the fictional world a more accepting place.
Which brings me to me. My childhood did not suck. I was a member of the former group who spent their preschool years truly believing that the events in Toy Story could happen in any child's room (I also believed that I could take a rocket ship to the planet where The Lion King took place so I could stop Mufasa's death). When none of the characters or events in my favorite books or movies happened in real life, and magical portals to cartoon worlds failed to show up when I wanted them to, I decided to pretend that they happened in my head until they actually did. I figured it was only a matter of time.
Well, in a big way, that frame of mind stuck and hasn't completely gone away. And I hope it never does. My initial dreams of existing in other worlds consisted, in the beginning, of some version of myself being a character in my favorite movies and TV shows. I was one of the puppies in 101 Dalmatians. I was a Powhatan child in Pocahontas. I stowed away on the Millennium Falcon, the only animated duck with a lightsaber in a cast full of live-action humans (sweet freaking Jesus, don't ask). I was a babysitter for the Rugrats who sorted out every little misunderstanding before they could happen effectively destroying any need for an actual plot. When I learned to write stories around age 5, one of my first was called "Hannah's Wish Story," a mini-adventure that featured myself and my friend Doug in Gondoland (though whether or not the actual characters of Muzzy made any appearance is lost to me at the moment). The term "fanfiction" would not enter my vocabulary for another 7 or 8 years. It wasn't long before this mode of thinking expanded to my favorite characters hanging out with me. I would re-teach my karate lessons to the toys of Toy Story in my room every week. Bender from Futurama turned out to be my long-lost older brother.
Eventually, around age 10 or so, these concepts all congealed into an epic storyline in my head known simply as The Crystal Journeys.
I was still basically Mary Sue-ing myself all over the place (another term I would not become familiar with for a while): I was a traveling companion of Samurai Jack's that he eventually fell in love with, I was a member of the Digidestined who got an extra Digimon every season (although I don't think I ever saved the world all by myself), etc., but now these events in my head no longer took place in separate worlds. They were all facets of the same story: I was an alien princess from a superior race known as the E-Maxens (basically a furry-race, if you want to put it that way). Also, we were psychic and nearly impossible to kill) who resembled a human-sized version of Pinky, wielded a magic sword, sported a red cape and a mohawk for some reason, and fought the forces of evil with her band of loyal, eternally dedicated band of followers that included Anakin Skywalker, Sonic the Hedgehog, the Marquis de Lafayette, and later more mature figures like Solid Snake, just to name a few of MANY. We were collectively known as the Crystal Alliance.
My mom, on a few occasions when explaining my "incredibly vivid imagination" to the many psychologists I visited during my many autism/Asperger's studies, described The Crystal Journeys as being such an integral part of me that it was essentially "the lens through which she sees the world." And it was true. Visiting other worlds on their own was all fine and good, but having The Crystal Journeys took the best of all my favorites and mixed them together in my own sandbox. Not all the characters were mine, but the world certainly was. Sure, I had friends in real life, but my Crystal Rangers would be there for me forever. In my room back home, there sits on my shelf an "episode guide" where I wrote down summaries of most of the Crystal Alliance's biggest adventures.
Now begs the question: was The Crystal Journeys born out of some emotional need? As I stated already, my childhood did not suck, so I had no genuine pain that I desperately needed to escape from. Sure, I have Asperger's Syndrome and one of its signature traits is that people with it tend to be "off in their own worlds," but this felt like more than that. So what's my theory, you ask? Simple: as I stated before, I feel like I spent a lot of my early childhood "waiting" for fantastical things to happen. Eventually, a cynical subconscious pocket of my brain realized that this was never going to happen. The real world was too mundane and boring, so I created my own reality made of solid awesome to carry around with me.
Really the bottom line is: I was upset that real life wasn't like a movie or a book or a TV show and thus wasn't "interesting enough." But as I got older, I realized that it is and can be if you look in the right places. It just took me a while to learn how to do that.
When I was 15, I discovered the live-action role-play camp known as the Wayfinder Experience and my life was changed forever in the aforementioned way. Now, I don't mean "life was like a movie" in the sense of "we went on fantastic adventures with swords and magic and romance," believe it or not (but it can certainly feel that way during the games themselves). I mean it in the sense that I was finally meeting new and interesting people and learning about seeing the extraordinary in the little things. Also, I was reminded that fiction has to have some basis in fact, and I began noticing when those "facts" happened to me. I developed unrequited love a few times, including such classic scenes as The Confession, The Rejection, the Wandering Forlornly In The Rain, and The Shoulder To Cry On. I noticed my friends and other people in my life filling certain archetypes, like The Guy-Friend Who Might Actually Be Attracted To Me, the Stoner-Slacker-Guitarist With A Heart Of Gold Who Just Wants To Make Music For The Rest Of His Life, the Lovable Fast-Talking Asian Nerd, the My Friend's Hot Roommate, and the Ron Weasley To My Harry Potter.
In the years between then and now, my internal image of myself has shifted from my fursona Princess Hannah to simply an anime-style version of my human self. The Crystal Journey stagnated because I didn't need those wild adventures anymore. I was discovering the adventure of real life: the ultimate form of fusing fiction and reality. And that, I suppose, is one way of describing growing up.
Now, this isn't to say that The Crystal Journeys has faded from my mind without a trace. I just don't need to live in that world anymore. I still interact with characters in my head on a very regular basis, but it's always to put a spin on events happening in my life. Scott, a character I used from an old TV show called Higher Ground, somehow wound up becoming one of my most-used and most-developed characters in The Crystal Journeys. He still sticks around with me as a sort of imaginary friend; a conscience, an animus, however you want to put it. Lieutenant George of Blackadder Goes Forth popped into join us around this time last year and became my internal voice of encouragement to counter-balance Scott's voice of reason and criticism. Last month, George started seeing the Tenth Doctor when I wasn't around (an imaginary friend for an imaginary friend?). Yesterday morning, I woke up to find that he'd somehow wedged the TARDIS in my closet. Last night, I gave Scott and George a break and went for a philosophical walk with Ten, which ended in my reminded him that, Time Lord or no, as long as he was a figment of my imagination I was basically God to him. I then proceeded to tell Eleven that I looked forward to his exploits in March when season 5 starts.
Some habits die hard, I guess.
This took me nearly 2 hours. It's great to get this stuff on "paper."
LJ cut for LONG.
I think it's safe to say that anyone who has ever been enthralled by a book or a movie (or a video game, if you're that type) has mused at some point or another about the idea of fiction as an escape from the real world. Whether it's following amazing characters to fantastic worlds or pitying people with worse problems than you, the fact remains that It's Not Real. And that's why you feel safe in those worlds.
Which begs the question: what does this concept mean to people of different ages? Young children who grow up with Disney movies and the like are more likely to love these worlds because childhood innocence would lead them to believe that they actually exist. On the other hand, a child might be indirectly forced into these retreat worlds by the outside being a genuinely harsh place. Maybe they've lost a parent, or their household is an unstable environment, so of COURSE they'd find the fictional world a more accepting place.
Which brings me to me. My childhood did not suck. I was a member of the former group who spent their preschool years truly believing that the events in Toy Story could happen in any child's room (I also believed that I could take a rocket ship to the planet where The Lion King took place so I could stop Mufasa's death). When none of the characters or events in my favorite books or movies happened in real life, and magical portals to cartoon worlds failed to show up when I wanted them to, I decided to pretend that they happened in my head until they actually did. I figured it was only a matter of time.
Well, in a big way, that frame of mind stuck and hasn't completely gone away. And I hope it never does. My initial dreams of existing in other worlds consisted, in the beginning, of some version of myself being a character in my favorite movies and TV shows. I was one of the puppies in 101 Dalmatians. I was a Powhatan child in Pocahontas. I stowed away on the Millennium Falcon, the only animated duck with a lightsaber in a cast full of live-action humans (sweet freaking Jesus, don't ask). I was a babysitter for the Rugrats who sorted out every little misunderstanding before they could happen effectively destroying any need for an actual plot. When I learned to write stories around age 5, one of my first was called "Hannah's Wish Story," a mini-adventure that featured myself and my friend Doug in Gondoland (though whether or not the actual characters of Muzzy made any appearance is lost to me at the moment). The term "fanfiction" would not enter my vocabulary for another 7 or 8 years. It wasn't long before this mode of thinking expanded to my favorite characters hanging out with me. I would re-teach my karate lessons to the toys of Toy Story in my room every week. Bender from Futurama turned out to be my long-lost older brother.
Eventually, around age 10 or so, these concepts all congealed into an epic storyline in my head known simply as The Crystal Journeys.
I was still basically Mary Sue-ing myself all over the place (another term I would not become familiar with for a while): I was a traveling companion of Samurai Jack's that he eventually fell in love with, I was a member of the Digidestined who got an extra Digimon every season (although I don't think I ever saved the world all by myself), etc., but now these events in my head no longer took place in separate worlds. They were all facets of the same story: I was an alien princess from a superior race known as the E-Maxens (basically a furry-race, if you want to put it that way). Also, we were psychic and nearly impossible to kill) who resembled a human-sized version of Pinky, wielded a magic sword, sported a red cape and a mohawk for some reason, and fought the forces of evil with her band of loyal, eternally dedicated band of followers that included Anakin Skywalker, Sonic the Hedgehog, the Marquis de Lafayette, and later more mature figures like Solid Snake, just to name a few of MANY. We were collectively known as the Crystal Alliance.
My mom, on a few occasions when explaining my "incredibly vivid imagination" to the many psychologists I visited during my many autism/Asperger's studies, described The Crystal Journeys as being such an integral part of me that it was essentially "the lens through which she sees the world." And it was true. Visiting other worlds on their own was all fine and good, but having The Crystal Journeys took the best of all my favorites and mixed them together in my own sandbox. Not all the characters were mine, but the world certainly was. Sure, I had friends in real life, but my Crystal Rangers would be there for me forever. In my room back home, there sits on my shelf an "episode guide" where I wrote down summaries of most of the Crystal Alliance's biggest adventures.
Now begs the question: was The Crystal Journeys born out of some emotional need? As I stated already, my childhood did not suck, so I had no genuine pain that I desperately needed to escape from. Sure, I have Asperger's Syndrome and one of its signature traits is that people with it tend to be "off in their own worlds," but this felt like more than that. So what's my theory, you ask? Simple: as I stated before, I feel like I spent a lot of my early childhood "waiting" for fantastical things to happen. Eventually, a cynical subconscious pocket of my brain realized that this was never going to happen. The real world was too mundane and boring, so I created my own reality made of solid awesome to carry around with me.
Really the bottom line is: I was upset that real life wasn't like a movie or a book or a TV show and thus wasn't "interesting enough." But as I got older, I realized that it is and can be if you look in the right places. It just took me a while to learn how to do that.
When I was 15, I discovered the live-action role-play camp known as the Wayfinder Experience and my life was changed forever in the aforementioned way. Now, I don't mean "life was like a movie" in the sense of "we went on fantastic adventures with swords and magic and romance," believe it or not (but it can certainly feel that way during the games themselves). I mean it in the sense that I was finally meeting new and interesting people and learning about seeing the extraordinary in the little things. Also, I was reminded that fiction has to have some basis in fact, and I began noticing when those "facts" happened to me. I developed unrequited love a few times, including such classic scenes as The Confession, The Rejection, the Wandering Forlornly In The Rain, and The Shoulder To Cry On. I noticed my friends and other people in my life filling certain archetypes, like The Guy-Friend Who Might Actually Be Attracted To Me, the Stoner-Slacker-Guitarist With A Heart Of Gold Who Just Wants To Make Music For The Rest Of His Life, the Lovable Fast-Talking Asian Nerd, the My Friend's Hot Roommate, and the Ron Weasley To My Harry Potter.
In the years between then and now, my internal image of myself has shifted from my fursona Princess Hannah to simply an anime-style version of my human self. The Crystal Journey stagnated because I didn't need those wild adventures anymore. I was discovering the adventure of real life: the ultimate form of fusing fiction and reality. And that, I suppose, is one way of describing growing up.
Now, this isn't to say that The Crystal Journeys has faded from my mind without a trace. I just don't need to live in that world anymore. I still interact with characters in my head on a very regular basis, but it's always to put a spin on events happening in my life. Scott, a character I used from an old TV show called Higher Ground, somehow wound up becoming one of my most-used and most-developed characters in The Crystal Journeys. He still sticks around with me as a sort of imaginary friend; a conscience, an animus, however you want to put it. Lieutenant George of Blackadder Goes Forth popped into join us around this time last year and became my internal voice of encouragement to counter-balance Scott's voice of reason and criticism. Last month, George started seeing the Tenth Doctor when I wasn't around (an imaginary friend for an imaginary friend?). Yesterday morning, I woke up to find that he'd somehow wedged the TARDIS in my closet. Last night, I gave Scott and George a break and went for a philosophical walk with Ten, which ended in my reminded him that, Time Lord or no, as long as he was a figment of my imagination I was basically God to him. I then proceeded to tell Eleven that I looked forward to his exploits in March when season 5 starts.
Some habits die hard, I guess.
This took me nearly 2 hours. It's great to get this stuff on "paper."