Positive opinions

It’s easy to criticise.

But who am I? How do we know I'm not an idiot?

Well, frankly, we don't. And neither do I, no matter how many times I ask.

And I’ll admit my blogs so far have been about picking things apart, questioning perceptions, finding things that frustrate or repel me and wagging my finger at them. So I thought I’d start today by talking about a bunch of arty things I've enjoyed recently.

Misfits. If you haven’t seen this UK TV show at all, do check it out. A bunch of reject community service teens are granted superpowers by circumstance and feel compelled to try to do the right thing. They rarely DO do the right thing, but that’s the whole fun of the show. It’s just finished its final season (five total) and I’ve loved almost every minute of it. From clever horror to ridiculous conversations about pick n’ mix and shagging a tortoise, this is one of my favourite TV series ever.

Captain America: The Winter Soldier. I joined Twitter recently (I’m a man of the times) and my first pearl of wisdom was: Captain America: The Winter Soldier is like being punched in the face by fun over and over again. And that pretty much sums it up. So much better than the first movie, which I felt lost a lot of its oomph after the first act, it consistently surprises and entertains in all the ways an action adventure should. It makes Cap as interesting as I’ve ever found him as he battles with the idea of grey morality and bounds from fight to fight with a good balance of humour and pathos.

Chuck Wendig’s blog. http://terribleminds.com/ramble/blog/

This guy is a swearing, imagery-slinging novelist who’s blog I recently stumbled across in search for inspiration for my own. He has a number of his own short stories up on the site, along with loads of articles and interviews about writing and creativity. He is eloquent in a violent sort of way and his views are sharp and refreshing. Plus he’s written quite a few successful books so he’s obviously doing something right.

Peter Clines. http://thoth-amon.blogspot.com.au/

This guy is one of my two favourite novelists of this century and is definitely one of my all-time favourite writers. His series Ex-Heroes is nothing short of kick-arse, and his blog is full of inspiring, no-nonsense, funny insights into the creative process of prose and screenwriters. He is one of only a handful of novelists who has never written a sentence I found boring.

The Lego Movie. Movies so awesome don’t come along very often, but this one was cool and slick and knew exactly what it was doing the whole way through. It never missed an opportunity or dropped the story ball, and I laughed like a broken record. Two hearty claw-hands up.

The West Wing. I once went to a Q & A with one of the ex-writing staff on this show. He said that although it was a fantastic show to work on, Aaron Sorkin, the show’s creator, was a terrorising dictator with a rock star ego. He apparently assumed all credit for all episodes, rewrote the other writers constantly and basically saw himself as a word-god. For many years I avoided all Sorkin shows based on this character profile. Then I saw The Newsroom accidentally and became enamoured. Such a brilliant show, seriously. And you can see where West Wing is a big step in that direction. I’m currently into season four and still enjoying the cyclical conversations and wily idealism Sorkin is so good at. Still not sure if he’s a dick. Good writer, though.

So that’s my praise for stuff. And there is a lot more where that came from. I just wanted to give the positive stuff some air time. Because it is easy to criticise. Much too easy for some. Even easier because of the internet. Its like we all think that a voice you can hear is a voice worth listening to. But at the risk of being negative, I think that's stupid. Because all opinions are not created equal.

But I'll leave that for next time because this week is all about being positive. Now go like some art.

Why the world needs art

There are two types of people in the world. Those who make it possible to live here and those who make it worth living here.

You can't have one without the other.

Why do you think it is that the most famous, the most idolised, the most widely revered people on earth are all entertainers? Scientists don’t have massive fan clubs. Even the cancer-curing ones. They don’t trend as often or get as many hits. They don’t get in the news every day.

But Miley Cyrus does. So do the Kardashians.

And while it’s hard to classify reality TV and certain publicity stunts as art, they do fall into the category of entertainment that is expressing something. So, technically, art is what they are. Even if only because they fulfill our basic emotional need to feel good about ourselves by watching others fail.

So why do we work all week, wearing ourselves out, to earn money in reliable jobs that don't necessarily make us happy, and then spend it all on movies, music, and some food and booze to wash it all down with?

Because we need art. We love art. Without music life would be unbearable. Without stories we would curl up and die. Because humans are defined by their stories. By their art. It's what separates us from the rest of the animals. We tell each other stories to make life worth living.

So why do we all think artists are lazy for not getting real jobs? Why is a ‘real job’ defined as something that is guaranteed to benefit the doer, that takes no risks in keeping them comfortable, when a ‘real job’ should be defined by how it benefits everyone else? Like a nurse. Or a charity worker. Or a philosopher. Or an artist.

Why do we get angry at them for chasing things that aren’t guaranteed? For trying when they might fail? Why would they strive to make something meaningful when they could just sit, safe and sound, in front of their TVs and criticize people for trying stuff that might not work?

All good questions.

I think it's because it's scary to hope and it's easy to despair. I think it’s because it's hard to risk failure and easy to guarantee mediocrity. I think it’s because it’s foolish to act on courage without knowing things will work out. Brave is only brave if you know everything will work out in the end. Apparently.

So we hate the people who have the balls to try. And its not like artists have exclusivity on this. Loads of people do jobs with no guarantees. But NO artist works with a guarantee. Not in the same way that an engineer might, or a gardener might, or a liquor store clerk might.

We resent artists in particular because deep down we know we need art as much as anything else. From the ladies gossiping about the latest celeb scandal, to the scientists turning up the Bach as they study the universe. And the reason we get angry at artists - call them deluded and lazy - is because we know they've chosen the harder option. The option that has all the work of 'real jobs' with much fewer guarantees. The option we couldn't so even if we did have every guarantee.

We recognise the need in ourselves to have stories and art and music. Because this is what connects us. It's what we work for. What we wait for. What gives us hope when hope seems foolish. When we need courage. This is what makes the world turn.

So if you think it’s not a real job to try to make things better. To make art and give hope and bring new ideas to the world, then maybe you should turn off your TV, stop listening to music and going to the movies – and see how you deal with your life then. See how long it takes before you lose your way, or your will. Because making art is just as hard as building a house or balancing accounts. And we need it like we need houses. Like we need medicine. Like we need air.

Because we all know deep down that there are two types of people in the world. And we need both kinds for the world to work.

Unless you think surviving is the same as living. Then you're on your own.

Structure-phobia

For some writers, structure is a dirty word. It is boring and restrictive and the polar opposite of creativity. They might admit that there are certain patterns in the human psyche and the logic of the universe, but they would never intentionally ‘impose’ structure upon their stories, lest they lose their magical essence.

I find this slightly ridiculous. Stories don’t work because they’re magic. They work because they play with human psychology to expose beautiful truths about the human experience. I think a fear of structure is really just a lack of understanding of human psychology. Because if you understand human psychology, you know pretty well why a story point moves you, why a character is interesting, why one story doesn't work but another one does. There is, as ever, an unknown quantity that floats at the heart of any brilliant artwork, but again, this is simply the magic we don’t understand yet. Good writing means peering behind the curtain at all the best magicians’ blueprints and using them to make your own magic. Bad writing is watching magic shows then putting your hand into a hat over and over again until you pull out a rabbit.

People often think coming up with ideas is the hard part of writing. It’s not. Shaping the idea into something that makes sense and means something to other people is what is hard. A writer who doesn’t use structure is grabbing ideas out of the air and saying, “Look at what I did.” But anyone can grab ideas out of the air. Only good writers can shape them into something meaningful. And that requires tools.

And these tools aren't strait jackets. They can’t tell you who your characters are or what they have to do. They merely outline patterns of emotion; stages of learning; the undeniable framework of the human mind. These structures are fundamental to human behaviour, to human society, to every level of human existence, and ignoring them means ignoring the things that makes stories – and people – so magical.

Is it depressing to writers that almost every character in a story has to be either male or female? Is it restrictive to know that the human mind goes through five stages of response when something upsets it? Is it creatively stifling to break human learning down into Unconscious Ineptitude, Conscious Ineptitude, Conscious Aptitude and Unconscious Aptitude?

No, it’s not. Because humans are all about stories and stories are all about humans. The limitations of one are the limitations of the other. Every so often an individual will go off course and do something completely unpredictable – but it always has an explanation that fits a pattern or structure from the world as we know it.

So why is it so hard for structure-phobes to deal with the idea that a story should have three acts – a beginning, middle, and end? Or a hero’s journey? Or a ‘saving the cat’? Isn’t that pretty much every story, every anecdote, every joke ever told?

Knock, knock (Call to adventure)

Who’s there? (answering the call)

Cash (new world)

Cash who? (adapting to new world)

No thanks, I like peanuts. (resolution/catharsis/lesson learned i.e. “Don’t answer knock-knock jokes”)

I challenge anyone to compare the Snyder Beat Sheet or the Hero's Journey to any popular story and not be convinced. From Aesop’s fables to gossip, every good story contains inherent structures. Ebbs and flows. Ups and downs. They are the reason stories work. And good writers are using them whether they’re aware of it or not.

The next argument from a structure-phobe is usually that the need for structure in stories is predicated on the fact that stories need to have lessons. Many structure-phobes reject the idea that stories need lessons. My argument to this is that a story without a lesson isn't a story, it’s an incident report.

There is a reason why other people’s dreams are usually boring and anecdotes are only worth telling if they ‘have a point’. If a story is just as chaotic and incoherent as everyday life, then what is it providing us that life cannot? 

The point of stories is to shape life experience into truths that we can take back with us into the real world. If we don’t come out of a story feeling changed in some way, then that story has failed. Like an anecdote that ‘went nowhere’ or someone else’s dream. A story without structure isn't a story because stories always ‘go somewhere’.

Another argument I hear is that structure impedes character, and ‘good stories are all based on character’. But I’d argue that this is exactly what these structures do. From Blake Snyder’s Beat Sheet (from the fantastic Save the Cat) to Christopher Volger’s A Hero’s Journey and Aristotle’s Poetics, all good story structure models are based on the patterns of human character. All they do is quantify the rhythm and patterns of the human mind (as it relates to story) that we've known for years. Their use can only help to strengthen character because they act as a foundation for believable human response in any given situation. And believable characters are what we want because we will listen to the lessons they have to teach us.

The final gambit of the structure-phobe is to say that they don’t want their character to follow normal patterns of human behaviour. They want them to be unique. They want them to do this really cool thing they just thought of. That’s why the writer can’t use structures. Well, I’m sorry, but nobody is so unique a human being that they cease to be a human being. And if you want human beings to enjoy or even understand your story then you HAVE to follow believable patterns of human response. It’s how you play with the minutiae of these responses that makes your characters unique. So stop just writing something ‘because it’s cool’ and start doing it because it’s meaningful to other humans.

So that’s my rant for the day. Structure is king because character is king because meaning is king. If you’re still on the fence about it take a look at the work of Blake Snyder, Christopher Volger, and Robert McKee. Read through their books; get to understand where these terrible creativity-crushing structures come from and you’ll realise that peering behind the curtain doesn't destroy the magic, it makes you a magician.

Sequels = re-gifting?

I’d like to talk about sequels.

Sequels are what happens when a movie is successful. They are a continuation of a story that may or may not have been intended for continuation. Sometimes they are good. Sometimes they are the other thing. Sometimes we feel like they’re totally justified, sometimes we wonder why the hell we’re getting a fourth movie about pirates who are now, by the way, having all the magics. Whether or not we feel they are justified, there is one justification no one can argue with.

Sequels get made when originals make money, to the point that getting butts in seats is more important than actually making a worthy second movie. All a sequel needs to do is promise the effect of the original and people will pay to see it. Delivering on that promise is not a requirement.

‘The flop’ is not a new concept. Every movie runs the risk of not making money. But it seems that over the last few decades movies have changed in how they deal with risk by sticking to what they know.

When you look at all the blockbusters - the family movies, the animations, the films that pull the crowds and get the press – they all now seem to have one thing in common. They’ve been done before. They’re books of films. Or comics. Or remakes or reboots. The only original films seem to be the indies, the Rom-Coms and the thrillers. Though a lot of those come from books too.

And it’s all about the risk. Basically, film companies don’t want to take any. If they can find a story that’s already been told, that people already love, they can have a guaranteed audience before they even decide on the story. Why risk paying a writer to spend a year on a script, then pay a director and actors and a film crew for another year to shoot a film, then promote the film, all to simply ‘see how it goes’? Business doesn’t work that way (says the Arts major).

And why take risks on ‘unknown quantities’ when you've got thirty years of popular cartoons, forty years of popular TV, eighty years of popular comics, and fifteen years of popular films that can all be remade and then remade again. ‘Giving it a new spin’, ‘taking it to a new place’, ‘exploring new territory’ – they’re all code for ‘we’re making something we already know you’ll like’.

Part of the problem is the idea of ‘giving the audience what they want’. As technology accelerates, audiences want to see their favourite characters up on screen again, in more vivid colour, in more epic adventures, with better CGI and bigger explosions, played by their latest celebrity crush. But all the best writers and directors and producers know that audiences are not writers or directors or producers. They are audiences. And what an audience wants ultimately does not matter as much as what they need.

And what they need is to be challenged.  To be engaged. To be shaken up. Because stories only matter when they change us. Even in the tiniest way. A movie that doesn't change us is a waste of time.

But some sequels do change us. So do some remakes. The Lego Movie is one of the best movies I’ve seen in a while and it has the same marketing origins as the Transformers series and Barbie and the Mermaids of Mermaidia.

What makes it special is its original story.

And some movies have the conceptual depth to justify more stories. The Toy Story’s are great examples, as are the 28 Days/Weeks Later films. Both worked perfectly well as solo outings but had enough success, and contained enough story potential, to spawn strong sequels. Even Sister Act 2 and Bill and Ted’s Bogus Journey are worthy successors, in my opinion.

But it’s the movies that strain to be sequels that are the problem. The ones try to repeat the ‘magic’ of the original instead of finding fresh souls of their own. Cars 2, The Transformers movies, the Pirates of the Caribbean sequels were all parasitic growths on the backs of their predecessors, with few original stories to tell. They tried to give the audiences what they wanted – ‘more of the same’ - without giving thought to what they needed: something new.

And therein lies the problem. How can you give more of something new?

Granted, both the Transformers and Pirates films did very well at the box office. And a lot of people can watch all eight without feeling too underwhelmed. But these people still comment on the reduction in quality between the original and the sequels in both series. It makes me wonder if they like the sequels on their own merits, or merely because they let them re-enter the world they loved so much in movie number one.

One film company that seems to buck this trend is Pixar. Since Toy Story in 1995 (I know, right? A whole year after The Lion King) they have managed to bring us original stories again and again. That’s nearly 20 years of successfully original storytelling, and similar returns at the box office.

Though, there have been some dips in their success. With the exception of the Toy Story’s – and now Monsters University – Pixar films began to suffer when they start worrying more about what the audience wants than what they need.

Cars 2 was an attempt to recapture the glory of Cars. I don’t have loads of love for either film, but the first was much more well received than the second (paradoxically, or perhaps predictably, the second has grossed more worldwide). And as for the recent ‘moderate successes’ of Brave, Planes, and my personal problems with Frozen, my theory is that these recent films have all suffered, not from sequelitis, but from having too many cooks.

Various podcasts and interviews appear to indicate that from Brave onward Pixar changed its attitude about audience screenings. These are preview screenings of unfinished versions of a film to gauge audience response and adjust a film accordingly before the final release.

I’m delving into conjecture here, but my theory is that around the time Pixar merged with Disney (I’m still not sure which bought who) test screenings became more numerous, and so did preemptive changes to improve box office response. This is why I feel Brave, Planes, Wreck-It-Ralph and Frozen all seem sort of cobbled together and generally not as impressive as Wall-E, The Incredibles and Toy Story. As if too many people were being given what they wanted so no one got what they needed.

Though, in that sense, I speak entirely for myself. I know loads of people that think Planes has a great story, Frozen has good female role models, Wreck-It-Ralph has a lovable hero, and Brave has a second act. So maybe giving people what they want isn't that bad after all.

But I still worry about the idea of the guarantee. Not that filmmakers need it to invest in million dollar projects, but that they seem to think original stories won’t provide it for them.

Or maybe that’s it. It’s not that original stories won’t get butts in seats.We know original stories make money. Avatar is the highest grossing film of all time and that’s original (except that it is kind of like Pocahontas) and Titanic is the second highest, and that was original (except the part where we knew how it would end). I was going to say here that original stories still get butts in seats, it’s just harder than using a cardboard cut-out.

But I've just taken another look at the top grossing films of all time, which include The Avengers, Harry Potter Part 8, Frozen, Iron Man 3, Skyfall and The Dark Knight Rises. Despite my general point of view, I’m still surprised to find that the top 18 films are all sequels or book/comic adaptations. With the possible exception of Avatar at the number one spot, there are no original movies until we get to number 19, which is The Lion King.

I’m not sure what that says about us as film goers. I know that the ‘highest grossing films ever’ list has almost no correlation to the ‘most critically-acclaimed films ever’ list. But I wonder if that matters.

Either way, it’s clear these trends are not about risk after all. They’re about effort. Loss vs gain. Creation vs recycling. Gift vs Re-Gift.

And that’s all it comes down to. Sequels can be good if they have something new to say, but why make something new when you can make something comfortable? Its really up to us ticket-buyers as to how the trend continues. So I guess the question now is: would you rather watch a safe movie or a great movie?

Because you can’t have both.

Except for the Matrix sequels, obviously. Everyone loves those.

Writing People

The quality of your writing is absolutely capped at your understanding of human behaviour. You’ll never write above what you know about people.

- Tony Gilroy, writer of the Bourne films and winner of the Original   

   Screenplay Oscar for Michael Clayton

I’d add to that statement. I’d say that you’re writing will always be capped by your understanding of yourself. Because you are a person. And you are the standard by which you judge all other people.

And vice versa.

I've been told a few times that psychology has nothing to do with writing. That just because I consider myself a writer, that does not mean I know anything about how the human mind works or how humans tend to behave.

The truth is that writing has everything to do with psychology. At least, it does if I am any good.

Writing is about character. Every character in a story is an audience proxy. If I don’t know what a human wants, needs, feels and thinks, how the hell do I know how to create a proxy that a real human will believe in? If the audience is human, the stories are about humans. The characters can be fish or dogs or candlesticks or lions, but humans is what the story is about. So until people start writing stories for an audience of fish or lions, an understanding of human psychology will be integral for any sort of writing.

So it follows that in order to build and manipulate convincing human proxies, you need to be good with human behaviour. You need to understand why people do what they do; the  ABC of their life choices; you need to be able to predict behaviour based on human observation; and, most importantly, you need to be curious to learn all this stuff in the first place.

I am a strong believer in the power of learning. I believe anyone can learn almost anything. But there are certain things that you either have or you don’t. Imagination is one of them. So is observation, pattern recognition, empathy, and many of the other traits required to properly study and categorise human behaviour. These skills can be enhanced, practiced, nurtured, but if you don’t have them to start with, then you may as well be a colour blind interior decorator. Because a part of the world is missing from your view. And a good writer needs to see the full spectrum.

I think the people who don’t see the link between psychology and writing don’t really understand themselves. Or other people. They think that writer’s are strange whimsical individuals who swan about plucking ideas arbitrarily from the air. They don’t realise that all writing is based on perceptions of reality. That everything from fairy-tales to news reports is just human beings trying to make sense of the world as they know it. That for any form of communication to be conceived from and then relayed back into the real world it must be built using real world structures. Nobody can create something out of nothing. Especially if they want anyone else to understand it. New reports use facts and testimonies, fairy-tales use metaphors and hyperbole. And so do news reports, come to think of it.

Biology, upbringing, gender, socio-economic status, what they ate for breakfast that morning – it all has an effect on a writer’s work. And the audience's response to it. Writing is really just an expression of perception. And if you’re dealing with perception, you’re dealing with psychology. Human buttons and how they can be pressed.

And because writing relies on the ability to understand others, one of the first steps to being a good writer is understanding yourself. If you know why you do things, why you get angry, why you get jealous, why you feel joy, you can superimpose that model over the behaviours you observe in others until you begin to see patterns. Then you’ll start to know people as a group. Then humans as a species. You’ll start to understand the “personal-yet-universal” dichotomy of all good stories. And you’ll start to see writing in a way that the average person does not. What it’s for. How it works. And what it can do.

But if you are one of the people who can't see how psychology and writing interact. If you don’t know why you do things, if you can’t figure people out, if you’re not interested in human nature and human perception and human humanity, then you don’t really understand what stories are. 

But you might be able to change that.

If you really want to write, and write well, learn about yourself. Because stories are about people, and your understanding of them relies on your understanding of you. And you can’t write about something you don’t understand.

Realistic fantasies

Justice League: War is one of the best superhero movies I've seen in a while. Definitely the best from the DC universe. If you don’t know what I’m talking about you should check it out. Clever, character-informing dialogue, a constant stream of twists and turnarounds, and a well balanced distribution of attention between the players.

Why couldn't ANY of the other recent superhero movies be like this?

Well, for one, it’s a cartoon.

People expect real life superheroes to be treated ‘seriously’. And by seriously, I mean they get treated as if they could be dropped into the real world. I’ve always thought that any superhero story should, on some level, acknowledge that it is metaphorical. Same goes for fantasy. Superhero stories should never treat themselves like they are our exact reality. By trying to fit our reality, fantasy films merely expose their own inconsistencies as invented worlds. Films like this often aim for realism, when all they need to be is believable.

This is true of all films. Believability is far more important than realism; firstly, because making something believable is easier than making it reality; and secondly because stories aren't about reality. They’re about perspective. And when movies create their own reality, parallel but separate to ours, with their own standards of what’s possible and probable, they give their stories the legitimacy of their own universe because they’re not trying to pretend our reality is the same as theirs.

It’s an unpopular opinion, but none of the Bale Batman films resonated with me. I like Bale as an actor and Nolan as a director, and Batman is one of the coolest characters out there - but these films were highfalutin soap operas with two dimensional characters in unbelievable scenarios with bloated themes. And Batman had a lisp. More specifically, what’s known as a ‘sibilant s’. I don’t mean to be petty, but I can’t see how someone so studious and disciplined wouldn't work that out of his speech. Especially considering how many people could use it to connect his two identities. It doesn't matter how gravelly Bat’s voice is if he has the same lisp as a certain local playboy. To me, that’s not believable.

It’s also not believable for a human man to survive a forty storey fall onto a car, to talk like he knows his own story themes, and to support a hang-gliding wing structure with human arm strength. My basic opinion is that Batman could not exist in real life. Not like that. The idea of a human being so kick ass is great - and Batman is certainly one of the more realistic superheroes - but he would not fit any better into our real world than Superman or Wonder Woman. And near enough isn't good enough when it comes to connecting with an audience.

This is why Batman works so much better in cartoon, comic and video games. These forms acknowledge his fantastical elements without trying to wedge him into our world. They put Batman firmly in his own reality, where plant women and crocodile men are possible – and so is a dude who can hold a criminal above his head with one arm. If Batman existed in our world he would be more like Bourne or Bond. Smart, but fallible. He would be believable instead of a cartoon hero pretending to be real life.

This leads me to another reason fantasy can be tiresome if handled too ‘seriously’. Something which Justice League: War handled very well. A little thing called incredulity.

It doesn't matter how dangerous a situation is, how many times they've seen it, or how scared or brave they are, police officers, firemen, ambulance officers, rock climbers, and any other human who regularly engages in ‘serious’ situations will still be shocked when something incredible happens in front of them. They might joke about it, or swear, or gasp, they’ll probably leap into action to fix it - but they will always take a moment to go, “Holy crap, this is my life right now?” That’s the human thing to do.

But many current fantasy characters never do that. Bale’s Batman is one such offender. Cavill’s Superman is another. Affleck’s Daredevil is probably the worst for it. Even Harry Potter never really manages.

Filmmakers tend to think that having a character make fun of themselves will undermine the legitimacy of their peril, when it actually does the complete opposite. A character who shows incredulity in the face of extreme danger identifies themselves immediately as human, because human’s need to process what they experience, usually as they are experiencing it. Trained professionals know how to do it quickly, or keep it hidden, but they still experience an emotional response (that includes incredulity) in every situation, and the human audience knows that. So a character that is never incredulous doesn't read as human.

Did anybody else find Man of Steel’s Superman to be a little robotic? Henry Cavill is a good actor, but the script didn't have him respond to the fantasy elements of his own situation with anything other than “Hmm, this is serious.” Christopher Reeve’s Superman was far more believable, despite clunkier effects and 70s hair styles, because he had moments of ‘Oh crap’ and ‘How is this happening right now?’

Even Mr Incredible was more believably human than the Man of Steel. The way he cringed before stopping that train, or the way he clapped his hands to encourage himself to keep looking for the escaped robot on the island that first time. This is what real people do. What believable characters do. Fantasy or not. They sigh and cringe and shake their heads at the ridiculousness of their situations – and then they get on with it anyway.

This brings me to my final point – emotional believability. Nothing is as important in a film as emotional believability. The laws of physics, the rules of war, the vocal abilities of monkeys – none of them matter as much as the emotional reality of a story. Because there is nothing humans know better than emotions. We can accept breaks in number logic, or physics logic, or monkey logic, but we cannot accept breaks in emotional logic.

Which is why character incredulity has so much power in fantasy. In a story where nothing is familiar to us – not the setting or the slang or the physics – the one thing that will cement the reality of a world in our minds is its inhabitants and their feelings. If we are watching Star Wars with its X-wings and confederacies and wookies and droids, and we try to explain all of that stuff to the audience, our story is going to die on its arse (Episodes 1 to 3). If we throw in Han Solo with a bit of ‘Fly casual’, all of a sudden we have a reason to accept the foreign, ‘ridiculous’ elements of the story because the characters do and the experience improves dramatically (Episodes 4 to 6). Because, in stories, emotional logic trumps all other types of logic every time.

Some filmmakers seem to think that an audience will only take a fantasy seriously if all the characters in that world do the same. Ridiculous. People only have time to respond to serious situations in two ways – by laughing about it, or by getting on with it. They almost never say, “This serious situation is serious.” Which is why, without incredulity, a character is completely unbelievable.

Filmmakers know they are pretending. We know we are pretending. So why do they feel the need to convince us their fantasy is real? Do they think their emotional logic lacks the power to hold our interest? Typically, the answer is yes. If an audience refuses to accept the other types of logic running through your story, it’s because they haven’t been swayed by the emotional logic. Whereas if the filmmaker is able to show even the smallest acknowledgement that they are presenting us with a reality outside or our own, we will relax into their capable hands to see what they have to say.

So if you’re like me and have had trouble with the new Spider-mans or Man of Steel or all of the new Batmans, take consolation in this: that movies aren't supposed to be real. We all know that. But that doesn't make them any less special. Their specialness comes from what they tell us about our reality, not what they tell us about theirs. We have no use for the lessons of an ewok, or polymath millionaire, or an alien demi-god. But we do have a use for the lessons of a human being.

Even if that human being isn't real.

The Word Police

He and I are good at grammar.

Me and him aren't good at grammar.

The rest of us don’t really think about grammar.

But should we?

As a writer I sometimes find myself umming and ahhing over the proper use of words, pronunciation and grammar in conversational speech. More specifically, I think about the Word Police. And how Luddite they are.

For me, communication should be clear and comfortable. I don’t care if people invent words or use them in unusual ways. To me communication is about function over form. Rules can break and bend as much as you want - as long as you’re understood, you’re doing it right.

But not the Word Police. They need rules when they talk. They need to follow all of them. And they need you to follow them as well (the ones they can remember, anyway). And it’s all because they’re so smart, right? Smart people know all the rules. Science has rules. Maths has rules. Language has rules. Rules are there for a reason, so you better stick to them.

But anyone who understands communication knows that language hinders as much as it helps. That the rules exist only as long as they aid communication. And that they only aid communication as long as people use them. If nobody uses the rules, they have no purpose. New rules will emerge in their place. First as slang, colloquialisms and jargon and then as ‘real’ words. That’s all it is. We use the rules that work for us and scrap the ones that don’t. Like evolution.

Language is a code. Portuguese, mathematics, musical notation, Morse (the code and the inspector), and emoticons. Codes have two main features; to relay a message between two parties so that both understand; and to relay a message between two parties in the presence of a third party so that they (the third party) are not able to understand.

And because every language is a code, all of them exclude a certain portion of the population whenever they are used. Old people don’t understand texting, young people don’t understand Shakespeare, and nobody understands politicians.

So codes have their pluses and minuses. You can share information with people who know your code and exclude the people who don’t. This can be annoying, even condescending. But it is a symptom of the function of language. The codes of spoken language were built for the majority, but they can never be understood by everyone.

By the same token, if you can make up a word and have it be understood, then it’s a word. If someone says you made that word up, you can just tell them that all words are made up. 

Language is not based on common rules but on common symbols. As soon as those symbols are no longer common they are no longer part of the language.

Which is why the Word Police have no business correcting us. All they are doing is telling us we’re not talking in a way that was useful fifty, one hundred, two hundred years ago. They are trying to show off by proving they know the rules, but all they’re really doing is proving how little they know about actual communication.

If it was of some benefit to pontificate like an academic at the dinner table, then I’m sure a good number of us would partake in such eloquence at every opportunity. But it doesn't benefit us. It benefits academics. In an academic setting, academic speech is great. Perfect, even. It does what the language needs to do in that environment, at that time, in that social context. If the Word Police show up here, we will happily oblige.

But language in itself doesn't call for obedience, it calls for invention. If all we did was obey the language of our forebears no language would even exist because there would be no flexibility, no room for change or improvement or evolution.

Did you know that ‘pants’ was a rude word in the early 20^th century? In Victorian times, ‘leg’ was offensive. So was ‘bottom’. Should we go back to those rules? If we once talked like that, shouldn't we always talk like that? If following the rules is what matters, that’s exactly what we should do.

But it isn't what matters. In a few decades we've had ‘gay’, ‘cool’, and ‘partner’ all shift through different meanings. Are they correct in some meanings and incorrect in others? Nope. Just more and less offensive and more and less common.

I’d like to see how a member of the Word Police would go in the southern states of America. They speak English there, but it isn't 'correct' English. And yet however ‘correctly’ the Word Police spoke, the locals would not understand. So who’s speaking incorrectly in that scenario? Answer: whoever is failing to be understood by the majority.

Because understanding a language is exclusive to social context, not education. ‘Smart people’ know the same amount of correct language as ‘dumb people’. Which is why it is wrong to correct someone when they say lie instead of lay. Or me instead of I. Why belittle their use of language with your more correct but less useful version of the same language? Who is that helping? Conversational language operates under a Darwinian hierarchy, not tradition. What’s popular and what’s right are pretty much the same thing. 

The famous Webster’s Dictionary exists largely because an American named Noah Webster wanted to ‘Americanise’ the English language. So in the 19^th Century he decided to put out his own dictionary and change the spelling of a bunch of words. It wasn't evolution or contextual selection. It was one guy deciding he wanted centre and humour to be center and humor. He wanted to give his language exclusivity. He wanted his code to be secret.

And that’s exactly what the Word Police are trying to do. Showing off their knowledge of some long forgotten secret code as if it’s still relevant. The rest of us then mistake our ignorance of the code for intellectual failure when it’s actually our brains being efficient. Remembering the words that are useful. Because anything else is a waste of time unless you actually work in language.

And those are the only circles the Word Police should serve and protect; English, writing, and academia, that’s where the rules matter because that’s where they’re still useful. We want writing and academia to be poetic and illustrious and pragmatic and accurate. But casual conversation doesn't need to be because that’s not what it’s for.

The Word Police don't know the difference between small chat over capsicum dip and a graduate address at Harvard University. They're social simpletons. And their veiled attempts to prop themselves up in the tree-house of special language secrets with a sign that says: ‘No mispronounciation aloud’ are so misguided they might as well be trying to catch all the ants in the world to stop them evolving into other more successful kinds of ants.

So the next time someone corrects you for your misuse of him or I or lay or lie, ask them if they know about ‘pants’ or ‘leg’ or good old Noah Webster and his made up dictionary of special differences. Tell them that all words are made up, that language is what we want it to be.

And if they still don’t understand you, tell them to go dump an android farm on an empty of twelves.

Faux commentary

“A song is a good indication – if you can write a song, you can write, full stop.”

I've heard this comment a few times. Mostly in reference to film and TV writing. Seems pretty insightful. Songs can be hard to write. Some say they’re the hardest of all literary forms. I’m guessing most people would back themselves as short story writers before they’d back themselves as song writers. Maybe that’s a dumb assumption. The kind of assumption that would work better if I was ‘most people’.

Like most assumptions, really.

Speaking as one individual person, and more specifically as a writer, I don’t find songs hard to write. I don’t find poetry hard to write. For me, poetry, songs and short stories rank on the lower end of the creative difficulty scale. They don’t take anywhere near the time and planning of a screenplay or novel.

I should clarify here that I do mean good poetry, good songs, good screenplays. And ‘good’ so far as general critical and popular acclaim is concerned (we can talk about popularity vs quality another time). Anyone can write something badly. Everyone thinks they could ‘make a better film than that’. I’m saying good songs are easier to write than good films. I'd even say more good songs exist than good movies. I might be wrong, but its my perception. Plus, it supports my argument, so... 

And that’s basically the reason I don’t agree with that opening quote. Even making allowances for project scale, there’s a big leap between song and movie.

And here’s why.

A movie script is all writing. If it’s good writing - yay. You’re in. There’s a slightly better chance it will be made into a great film. If a movie script is crap, then, hmm, it still might get made, and it still might fill seats, but the likelihood is, at some point, people will realise its bad and start calling it that.

Same with TV. It all starts with the words. Good directors and good actors can make a great script greater, but it’s hard to make a crappy script good. The script is the foundation and a weak foundation equals collapso-destructo.

But a song is different.

A song has music.

Duh, right? But have you ever watched a movie with the sound down? Say a scary bit, or a tense bit, or a sexy bit? Notice anything strange? Like how you’re not so affected by what’s happening? The creeper isn’t as creepy; the gun fight isn’t as epic; the sex is kind of... funny. It’s because there’s no music. And music has power. It can trick us, turn us, make us feel things that aren’t there or amplify things that are. And when it’s not there, we’re emotionally stunted, unless the filmmakers have allowed for it. But it always has a powerful place in the media. And no more so than in song.

It sounds dumb to say, but in songs the influence of the music is so great that a bunch of crap lyrics can slip by without us even noticing. It happens every day. Poor writing plays on our ears because the music behind it makes it seem meaningful, makes it warm, makes it strong, makes it important.

I saw an old interview with comedian, Bo Burnham, in which he described a stand up gig where he made fun of modern pop songs and then realised Justin Bieber was in the audience. His song, “Repeat Stuff” is about how the songs of boy bands refer to young women in very general terms, the idea being to make every young woman feel like the song was written for them. I love how your fingerprints are different from everybody else’s, how your eyes are that blueish-greenish-brown and how your hair kind of falls off your head. How you have two arms, one on each side of your body.

And it’s a good point. A lot of those songs don’t really say much about anything. Funny too, was my initial reaction when I heard Burnham talking about this. I was like, “But I don’t listen to those songs for the words...”

And there you have it. There are songs we don’t listen to for the words.

Because words in a song can matter, but they don’t have to. Not like words in a script. Or words in a poem. Or an instruction manual. Of all writing, songs are one of the only forms that don’t require good writing to be considered good. You could make an argument for blockbuster movies, sure. But there’s still a general awareness that those films aren't good in the deeper, soul affecting sense of the word. But not so for songs with bad lyrics. Loads of people cherish a good Beiber. Or Kesha. Or Redfoo. These are artists who make no claims of Shakespearean aspiration. They put out ‘catchy’ songs and loads of people love them.  Then you have songs like “Same love”, “Price tag” and “Happy” – songs that express something more meaningful through what is essentially poetry. And loads of people love these songs too.

But both are classified as good songs. Not because both are well written in terms of words, but because both are well written in terms of music. Lazy poetry elevated by kickin tunes.

Scripts and prose don’t have that luxury. They don’t use music til they’re made. When the scriptwriter is no longer involved. Until then they’re on their lonesome. If the words in them aren't good, they don’t even get read.

So being able to write a good song – at least as far as popular culture is concerned – is about being able to write good music. Which means being able to write a good song does not mean you can write a good anything else.

Because in the land of TV, film and prose, words are important. But in the world of popular music, it doesn't matter what the fox says, because he can sing.