LJ Idol, Topic 14: "Twitterpated"
It began when I was four. Into my life came a pair of men - no, heroes - one with piercing eyes and a swashbuckling persona, the other naive, and destined for greatness. They were joined by a man with a bullwhip and crazy-love for adventuresome archaeology. Over the years, their ranks swelled. Warrior princesses, wizards, re-imagined mythological deities, kind-hearted super geniuses, even vampires and the slayers that hounded them.
For the most part, my heroes existed solely within the realms of fiction (much to my dismay!) In the real world, I was solemnly aware that very few people could genuinely be trusted. I was raised to love deeply - never blindly. There were a few people here and there with such pearls of wisdom and brilliant smiles that I couldn't help but to cling to their every word, adoringly dangling on every thought. Still, they were rare beings, and their numbers did not easily grow.
In books, though, I adored them passionately, stacking my heroes up alongside each other in a glorious rank and file, their only connection being my undeniable infatuation with all the things that made them wonderful. I strove to be like them in every way, using my jump ropes to practice precision whipping wildflowers from their stems, my frisbee as a chakram, thrown to richochet off of my home's exterior brick walls, and sitting in the middle of the local park on a large rock, meditating with all my might to try and this time levitate the sticks before me.
But beyond attempting to gain their unique skills, I also wanted to model my behaviour after them: to never, ever deny a person in need of help; to always have mercy, especially when it's undeserved; to be smart, snappy, and compassionate; to sacrifice my life, if needed; and to keep hope burning like a fire in my gut, even in the most hellish situations. I ached to be good.
Unlike people I met in reality, I believed my fictional heroes to be infallible. I thought they would constantly shine as beacons to guide me in who I ought to become, always trustworthy and never changing. I never paused to consider that, beyond these blazing pillars of light and love and heroism, they had been written by a human being - just as prone to mistakes as the rest of us mere mortals. Even meeting authors didn't touch this blind spot. That is, of course, until I met B.
B's character was everything I found so wonderful in all of the books and films and shows from which I drew my pool of heroes. I don't mind saying, I had something of a crush. I envisioned this character to be tall and handsome in that delightfully chiseled way. And he had an accent - oh, what a weakness I have for accents! But the crush was superfluous. What was truly important to me was how he acted. How, regardless of the situation, he would throw himself into harm's way to battle whatever beast had risen from the depths of hell to devour the world. He was kind to everyone around him, visiting the wounded in hospitals, and even telling the evil around him that it could be redeemed. (Friends, if you know me, you know my utter weakness for redemption stories.) This was the kind of character I wanted to emulate.
Over time, B. and I befriended each other. I was friends with many other fledgling writers, of course, even idolized a few - but B. was special to me because of his ability to evoke my longings to be something beautifully heroic. B. was funny and friendly and I adored him as unconditionally as I did his character. That was, sadly, my mistake: treating a fellow human being as a perfect monolith, whom I could always look up to, who would never fail to provide a gleaming example of what it meant to be good.
You must understand; B. is and always was a wonderful man. Unfortunately the younger, misguided me with stars in her eyes failed to realize that he was not perfect. At least, until he demonstrated that fact in such a way that I couldn't ignore it. B. himself fell upon hard times and his demeanor roughened. No longer writing heroes, he wrote villains and gritty tales of no-redemption and cruelties that shook my idolization of him deeply. Sometimes he would even say rude or downright cruel things to me and nothing I said could reach him in that dark place. In an achingly symbolic way, the loss of one of my fictional heroes simultaneously signaled the loss of a real one as well.
Over time, B. found his way back to happiness, or at least a plateau of something like it. We remained friends through it all and still I consider him very dear to me, but he taught me truths that I was... sad to learn. Similar as they may be, people are never as unchanging or infallible as the characters they portray - and it is always a mistake to deify someone to the point of perfection.
Difficult though the lesson was, it was valuable and I am grateful to have it. Sometimes the versatile nature of people means they will break your heart, but sometimes it means they will lift you to heights you never believed possible. My heroes, pristine and beautiful as I find them, can never change or adapt once they have been pressed into the bindings of a book.
But people - people can change - and that's something wonderful.
This has been an entry for the fourteenth topic of LJ Idol's eighth season, which is "Twitterpated."
Constructive criticism is encouraged, appreciated, and welcomed.
For the most part, my heroes existed solely within the realms of fiction (much to my dismay!) In the real world, I was solemnly aware that very few people could genuinely be trusted. I was raised to love deeply - never blindly. There were a few people here and there with such pearls of wisdom and brilliant smiles that I couldn't help but to cling to their every word, adoringly dangling on every thought. Still, they were rare beings, and their numbers did not easily grow.
In books, though, I adored them passionately, stacking my heroes up alongside each other in a glorious rank and file, their only connection being my undeniable infatuation with all the things that made them wonderful. I strove to be like them in every way, using my jump ropes to practice precision whipping wildflowers from their stems, my frisbee as a chakram, thrown to richochet off of my home's exterior brick walls, and sitting in the middle of the local park on a large rock, meditating with all my might to try and this time levitate the sticks before me.
But beyond attempting to gain their unique skills, I also wanted to model my behaviour after them: to never, ever deny a person in need of help; to always have mercy, especially when it's undeserved; to be smart, snappy, and compassionate; to sacrifice my life, if needed; and to keep hope burning like a fire in my gut, even in the most hellish situations. I ached to be good.
Unlike people I met in reality, I believed my fictional heroes to be infallible. I thought they would constantly shine as beacons to guide me in who I ought to become, always trustworthy and never changing. I never paused to consider that, beyond these blazing pillars of light and love and heroism, they had been written by a human being - just as prone to mistakes as the rest of us mere mortals. Even meeting authors didn't touch this blind spot. That is, of course, until I met B.
B's character was everything I found so wonderful in all of the books and films and shows from which I drew my pool of heroes. I don't mind saying, I had something of a crush. I envisioned this character to be tall and handsome in that delightfully chiseled way. And he had an accent - oh, what a weakness I have for accents! But the crush was superfluous. What was truly important to me was how he acted. How, regardless of the situation, he would throw himself into harm's way to battle whatever beast had risen from the depths of hell to devour the world. He was kind to everyone around him, visiting the wounded in hospitals, and even telling the evil around him that it could be redeemed. (Friends, if you know me, you know my utter weakness for redemption stories.) This was the kind of character I wanted to emulate.
Over time, B. and I befriended each other. I was friends with many other fledgling writers, of course, even idolized a few - but B. was special to me because of his ability to evoke my longings to be something beautifully heroic. B. was funny and friendly and I adored him as unconditionally as I did his character. That was, sadly, my mistake: treating a fellow human being as a perfect monolith, whom I could always look up to, who would never fail to provide a gleaming example of what it meant to be good.
You must understand; B. is and always was a wonderful man. Unfortunately the younger, misguided me with stars in her eyes failed to realize that he was not perfect. At least, until he demonstrated that fact in such a way that I couldn't ignore it. B. himself fell upon hard times and his demeanor roughened. No longer writing heroes, he wrote villains and gritty tales of no-redemption and cruelties that shook my idolization of him deeply. Sometimes he would even say rude or downright cruel things to me and nothing I said could reach him in that dark place. In an achingly symbolic way, the loss of one of my fictional heroes simultaneously signaled the loss of a real one as well.
Over time, B. found his way back to happiness, or at least a plateau of something like it. We remained friends through it all and still I consider him very dear to me, but he taught me truths that I was... sad to learn. Similar as they may be, people are never as unchanging or infallible as the characters they portray - and it is always a mistake to deify someone to the point of perfection.
Difficult though the lesson was, it was valuable and I am grateful to have it. Sometimes the versatile nature of people means they will break your heart, but sometimes it means they will lift you to heights you never believed possible. My heroes, pristine and beautiful as I find them, can never change or adapt once they have been pressed into the bindings of a book.
But people - people can change - and that's something wonderful.
This has been an entry for the fourteenth topic of LJ Idol's eighth season, which is "Twitterpated."
Constructive criticism is encouraged, appreciated, and welcomed.