On Stories Not Told

John Green, YA author of such bestsellers as The Fault in Our Stars and Turtles All the Way Down, is an immensely quotable guy. Between his novels, podcasts, and YouTube videos, John has written and spoken many words which people have subsequently turned into posters or t-shirts or Tumblr posts, or, as I have, permanently inscribed them on their bodies. One John Green-ism that I have been turning to often of late is his oft-repeated sentiment that “books belong to their readers.” He is not talking about the ownership of the physical book by the individual who purchases it, of course; he is referring to the idea that once a book is written, it no longer belongs to the author. Once it exists as a thing out there in the world, a book belongs to its audience.

John first offered this opinion in response to fans and readers asking for updates on what characters in his books would have done after the book was finished. Does Q ever see Margo again after the events of Paper Towns? What happens to Pudge now that Alaska is gone? John’s point is that those answers are not his to give; at least no more his than any other reader of the book. He wrote a story with a beginning, a middle, and an end – anything beyond that exists in the mind of the reader. It is part of the magic of reading, imagining the world beyond the pages and finding meaning for oneself beyond what the author “intended”. Authors should and often do leave white spaces around the edges for the reader to fill in themselves. Editors also help writers to figure out what is and what is not the story; if it is in the book but it is not the story, it gets cut. This is a crucial part of storytelling. The decision of what the story is, and what is not the story, is a deliberate one. In deciding not to tell a certain part of the story, the author is making a deliberate decision to allow the reader to fill that gap themselves, immersing them further into the world of the story. This is the nature of the relationship between author and reader – the author crafts a good story worth telling about characters who feel real, while the reader’s imagination fills in the blanks.

It is natural that this mutual investment between author and reader will create a longing in the latter to know what happens next. This longing is largely responsible for the phenomenon of “fan fiction,” wherein readers will actually write continuations or alternative versions of their favourite stories, often publishing them online for others to read. Active and imaginative fan fiction communities spring up around nearly every successful piece of fiction – and of course, the more connected readers feel to the worlds of these stories, the desire for more of that world gets stronger. Getting lost in a fictional universe is a delectable form of escape, and you can feel a real and profound sense of loss when you are forced to come back to reality when the book (or movie or television show) inevitably ends. Of course, you could just start again at the beginning, but you already know what happened; you want more, not again. John Green’s point is that the stories told in fan fiction, or the ones that simply exist in the mind of a reader, about what happens outside the confines of the actual story, are just as valid as any idea the author may have on the topic. Once the writer has told their story and given it to the reader, the power of the reader’s imagination to fill in the blanks in a way that is most valuable to them is much more amazing than any further detail the author could provide.

The reason all of this has been on my mind lately is that there are two very notable (heck, maybe the two most notable) fictional worlds which seem to be absolutely devoted to ignoring this principle. I am speaking, of course, of Harry Potter and Star Wars.

In the case of Harry Potter, JK Rowling wrote a series of novels that have come to mean the world to an entire generation of young people (and quite a few not-so-young people). A deep sorrow settled over the Harry Potter fandom after the release of the seventh (and supposedly final) book in the series, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Fans of Rowling’s magical universe felt lost knowing that this was it – all of the stories they would ever hear about Harry had been told. Harry Potter has perhaps the largest fanfiction community in the world today, with novellas and musicals and songs and artwork being created even now, 11 years after Deathly Hallows was published; but even that vibrant, creative community could not satisfy fans’ desire to know what happened to their favourite characters. Unlike John Green, however, Rowling has obliged. In spades.

First there came Pottermore, a website built for Rowling to release regular updates and accompanying material, filling in perceived gaps in the books or else giving an official ruling by the author on events and details outside of the timeline of the novels. With each update and expansion of the “canon,” Rowling invalidates more and more of the imagination and creation of the readers of her books. Following John Green’s thinking, she gave the books to her readers and is now taking them back, piece by piece, intent on never giving up ownership of her story. Pottermore was not Rowling’s cardinal sin, however. That came in the form of a play, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child, for which Rowling wrote the story, though the script was written by Jack Thorne. The script was released in book form so that fans who couldn’t see the play in London could still experience the canonical story of a grown up Harry, along with his friends and children. Not only does the play laugh in the face of the idea that readers have any ownership over a story, it is aggressively unlike the Potter than fans loved. As I said when I read it, none of it felt right. The characters did not sound, act, or feel like the characters that readers had gotten to know over the course of seven novels. Fans, myself included, had spent nine years wishing for more Potter – until it came, whereupon we wished we could take it back. It was not just that Cursed Child was bad; nothing Rowling released could have lived up to the magic of the world beyond the books that we had all built in our imaginations.

Star Wars, that other titan of storytelling, is also defying John Green’s wisdom of gifting a story to its readers (or in this case viewers); and while I don’t think Disney’s faults are as egregious in this matter, I think they are more overtly greedy. To be clear, I have no problem that they are still making Star Wars movies. George Lucas has talked about a series of nine films since the very beginning of Star Wars – heck, he started with Episode IV. And though many people have argued passionately that the filmmakers did to Luke Skywalker in The Last Jedi what Rowling did to her characters in Cursed Child, this is not my concern either. What rubs me the wrong way, as a believer that stories belong to their audience, is the other Star Wars movies that Disney is now pumping out at an alarming rate. Take Rogue One for instance. It was the first of the so-called “Star Wars Stories” – expanded universe films that tell stories outside of the main thread of the franchise. It tells the story of how the plans for the Death Star ended up in the hands of Princess Leia, leading to the Rebellion destroying the Empire. This was a story familiar to Star Wars fans, because it is mentioned in the very first film, Episode IV: A New Hope. According to rebel leader Mon Mothma, “many Bothans died to bring us this information.” When Lucas wrote that line, he intentionally left out the details. He made the conscious choice that it was more impactful to allow fans to imagine for themselves what it might mean that many Bothans had died in pursuit of the rebel cause. That was not the story he set out to tell. He left a blank space for the viewer to fill in themselves, bringing them into the story. Retrieving the plans was not the story he set out to tell. But Disney, as they are wont to do, saw an opportunity to add another movie to a tremendously lucrative franchise by filling in the blank and telling an official version of that story-that-is-not-the-story. And they are doing the same with Solo, and all of the other in-universe films they have announced. With every movie that is released to fill in the gaps in the main story of Star Wars, the imagination that viewers bring to the series is diminished. There are less blanks for them to fill in. They have less ownership over their own experience of the story, and become passive. A number on a profit sheet, a seat filled.

I may be wrong. Perhaps a piece of fiction is made more enjoyable, the more of it there is. But I tend to agree with John that a story is made more valuable when the storyteller relinquishes control to the audience; when they say, “I have told the story I set out to tell. You decide what happens next.”

*****

What do you prefer? Is there never enough of your favourite book or series, or would you rather imagine the stories beyond the pages yourself?

Wonderful

I spend a great deal of time commuting. On average, I spend ten hours behind the wheel over the course of the work week, and a few more hours most weekends. Fifteen years ago, I would have found that number daunting; I actually quite enjoy driving, but I like to keep my mind engaged while on the road. Spending more than half a day driving each week with only the radio or some homemade mixes burnt to CDs would quickly break me. Without the technology and media I have access to today, I would need to find a career much closer to home. Spotify, wherein I can cater endless hours of music specifically to my liking without ever having to hear commercials or change CDs, is a downright miracle. But even with all of that music at my disposal, I still spend 95% of my driving time listening to another media altogether.

Podcasts.

I’m not going to get into a long explanation of podcasts – they have become solidly mainstream over the last five years, and are enough a part of the media landscape that definition seems unnecessary. I listen to a huge variety of podcasts; comedy, true crime, movies, history, poetry, literature, and pop culture are just a few of the categories represented in my subscription feed. I listen to podcasts that make me laugh, make me think, inform me and engage me. But there is one podcast in particular that is unlike any other I listen to: Wonderful, from Rachel and Griffin McElroy.

The subtitle to Wonderful is “An Enthusiast Podcast”, and that is what sets it apart. Super-spouses Rachel and Griffin used to host a recap podcast centered on The Bachelor and other “reality” dating franchises, but eventually found that they no longer enjoyed the constant negativity brought on by covering some of the more problematic stances taken by those programs. They weren’t having fun anymore, talking week after week about toxic masculinity and casual racism on television. Both overwhelmingly positive, creative people, they wanted to start a new project which would put some good out into the world. They wanted to focus on things that are, well, wonderful. On their weekly, hour-long episodes, Rachel and Griffin each discuss two things which they think are wonderful. These could be songs they are into at the moment, television shows from their childhood, favourite holiday foods, or even abstract feelings (on this week’s episode, Rachel brought “curiosity”). They also read out “wonderful” submissions from listeners.

Wonderful is the highlight of my listening week. Though there is comedy and levity in other shows I listen to, there is something so refreshing about enthusiasm for enthusiasm’s sake. Comedy and fluff are a form of escapism from the often-overwhelming negativity of the world in 2018. Enthusiasm and appreciation, those values championed by Rachel and Griffin each week, don’t feel like an escape from the darkness – they feel like fighting back. As the doomsday clock ticks closer to midnight, there is an exhilaration in aggressive positivity; in refusing to focus on all the bad and instead being unapologetically excited about things that make you happy. So, inspired by the McElroys and hoping to shed light in my small corner of the universe, here are some things that I find wonderful:

A Blind Date with a Book

A used bookstore near where I grew up has an incredible section which they call “Blind Date with a Book”. They take books that have sat on their shelves for a while, reduce the price, wrap them in brown paper, and stick a blurb from a Goodreads review to the outside. They eliminate all the external prejudices we usually use when selecting books – author’s gender, plot summary, or even in many cases genre. All you have to go on is a stranger’s recommendation. For around $5, you get the joy and excitement of unwrapping a gift; and how often can you get yourself a gift and genuinely not know what you’re going to get? It is a great way to discover new books which your predispositions may otherwise have stopped you from picking up.

Genealogy

People turn to all sorts of disciplines to discover “who they are”; knowledge of the self is a core principle of philosophy, psychology, and religion. A fascinating part of who a person is is where they come from. I am exceedingly lucky that, on both sides of my family, my grandparents have been tracking our family history back generations. This used to be painstaking work, requiring lots of travel and time poring over manual records. As they have gotten older or passed away, I have become the steward of that research. It is amazing to be able to look back at these intricately charted family trees and realize how many lives had to converge in unexpected ways in order for me to even exist. Now, with the popularization of services like Ancestry.com or 23andMe, more people have easier access than ever to discover who they are and how they came to be – and I think that is wonderful.

Intermission

There are lots of practical reasons that an intermission is wonderful; first, it probably means your are attending some sort of live performance, and at any time of any day there is nothing I would rather be doing. Of course, it also allows you a bathroom break, a drink refill, a stretch of the legs. But intermission’s most wonderful function, in my opinion, is that it allows for that quintessential intermission question: “What do you think so far?” In allowing time for you to discuss the performance, whatever that may be, with your friends and neighbours halfway through the show, the experience goes from solitary to shared. Instead of the solitude of watching a movie in a cinema, it is now like you are reading a book in a book club. Other people’s opinions and experiences of the first act can shape the way that you experience the second. Plus, I can’t hold it that long.

Poetry Twitter

Just as it became increasingly difficult for Rachel and Griffin to justify watching The Bachelor, it is becoming increasingly difficult for me to justify using Twitter. The incessant negativity, the lack of affirmative action to counter hate speech, the constantly updating feed providing a play-by-play of the downfall of human decency – all of these make scrolling through Twitter extremely anxiety-inducing. I have tried, this year, to reclaim my Twitter feed (as well as reach my resolution to read more poetry) by unfollowing accounts which fetishize negativity, and instead following poets and poetry accounts. It helps my state of mind immensely to have the tragedy and brokenness interrupted by words of beauty, strength, and protest. The most wonderful of these, in my opinion, is the poet Kaveh Akbar – he fills my timeline with incredible amateur and professional poetry, and is a true light in the darkness.

What are things that you think are wonderful? Celebrate them in the comments!

Here Lies the Indie Book Store

It really felt like a funeral. I walked into the local independent bookstore in my small hometown this afternoon to a sombre scene. Many of the displays had already been disassembled or sold. What shelves remained looked like shelves at a Texas grocery store when they call for snow; disheveled, with wide empty spaces between the things nobody wanted. I couldn’t believe it when my mom had sent me a note telling me the store was closing. It had happened to many independent businesses in our little corner of the world as first one, then another multinational chain moved in. But for many years since the globalization of retail, it always seemed like our little bookstore, my little bookstore, was immune. But here was the sign in the window. Closing. Save 25% or more on all in store merchandise.

The same bell tinkled above the door when I walked in as it had when I arrived at 11 p.m. before the midnight release of the last Harry Potter book, or the second last, or the one before that. The same bell had chimed when I got my first job and had disposable income burning holes in my pockets, which I used to buy my very own set of The Lord of the Rings. That was the bell my wife heard when I first gave her a guided tour of my favourite spots, years ago when we were first dating. The little shop must have been something before it was my local independent bookstore, but I don’t remember a time before it.

This time when the bell tinkled, Roxanne, the owner and namesake of Roxanne’s Reflections Book & Card Shop, looked up from where she was at a shelf, trying to keep some semblance of order to her rapidly emptying shop. She beamed when she saw me, and she does whenever she sees a familiar face – and in a town our size, all faces are familiar. She asked me how I was, and I told her. Devastated, I said. I couldn’t believe it. She nodded knowingly, the smile never leaving, and remarked that it was time to move on to the next thing, whatever that may be. We passed the time for a while, as we have hundreds of times before. I told her I had to come back, though I no longer live in town, to say goodbye and to buy a few more books. It wasn’t enough to say; though I was surrounded by books full of them, I found that words escaped me. I think she knows I meant to say thank you.

I wandered the store a while and found some things to take among the remains of a once bountiful collection. I picked up a book of poetry and a novel for myself, and a novel for Angela by an author she likes. I gave a long last look as I walked out the door, the bell tinkling above my head, a lump rising in my throat that still hasn’t settled. It seemed my childhood, my small town upbringing, was still alive somewhere in that shop; but now I will never go back. Roxanne’s bookstore was a safe space, before such things were discussed and politicized as they are today. It was where a young boy, more interested in theatre than sports, apt to spend every daylight hour on a summer day with his nose in a book, went to discover wonders. It was where a young man took the girl who would be his wife to tell her, look, this is who I am.

I can get books anywhere now. I am not bound by the imaginary radius from my house which my parents deemed it safe for me to walk alone. I have a car, and within minutes I can be at a massive store run by a national chain filled with tens of thousands of books. I can even order books online and have someone brings them to me. I can ask strangers or even robots for recommendations based on things I have read before, and they are often right on the mark. But something tells me, for the rest of my life, whenever I smell the unmistakable scent of new books, I will hear the tinkle of a bell and feel at home.