August 23, 2009

• What we write MATTERS

  Last weekend I attended GEN CON at the Indianapolis Convention Center.  There I went to a special event called the Dragonlance 25th Anniversary Party.

  I discovered Dragonlance when I was very young. It was one of the first Fantasy series I ever read and probably the first one I really fell in love with. It was not a literary masterpiece. Nor was I looking for one at the time. But the unique characters and clever story lines stole my heart. I became immersed in them and I sought out every Dragonalnce book I could find or other books by Tracy Hickman and Margaret Weis.  It’s probably more because of these books than even Tolkein that I am a fantasy addict to this day.

  The principle authors and creators of Dragonlance were the two aforementioned authors. And Weis and Hickman were both there at the 25th Anniversary Party.  And when Tracy Hickman spoke he told a story that resulted in a resounding applause that seemed like it would not end. He told a story that touched me too and reminded me of something important. Something I far too often forget.

  I did a cursory search online but couldn’t find a draft account of this story. So I’ll have to try and retell it from memory. I don’t think I will be able to do it Justice, but I think you should have an opportunity to read it or hear it and maybe it will have an impact on you like it did on me.

  The way he told it he spoke first of meeting Margaret Weis and writing the very first book of the Chronicles. Dragons of Autumn Twilight and of a young boy finding that book unbeknown to the authors.  As time passed a sequel needed to be written and, as he told it, Weis and Hickman knew as they delved into the heart of that second book that something terrible and tragi would have to happen at the end of the book. A scene that they wrote that Tracy said to this day still brings tears to Margaret’s eyes when mentioned.

  Time passed and more books were written. A world was fleshed out. And lives changed. One day as authors are wont to do there came a time when Weis and Hickman went on a book signing tour. But this tour was different, Tracy explained. For on most of these tours, authors tend to fall into a routine. Though they try to be respectful, to give each person an opportunity to tell their tale, to have a moment with their authors that they remember, even so you fall into a rhythm, a kind of repetition.

  But this day was different he explained as it was explained to him, one stop on this tour they were told that every person coming to get their books signed was a solider about to be deployed in Afghanistan or a wife or mother or sibling or child of a soldier. Some of these people, the person told the authors won’t be coming back.

  As Mr. Hickman told the story he said, even faced with that awesome responsibility there was still a tendency almost by reflex to fall into that routine of long hours signing books. But one soldier stopped them and broke them out of their routine. There was something different in his eyes. And little did the authors know that this way the boy who found their books years ago when he was twelve years old.

  This kid, now grown, handed the authors a beat up copy of the annotated Chronicles Trilogy (The first series of Dragonlance).  And he told them That book had been with him when he was diving hundreds of feet under the sea and that it had been with him when he was jumping out of an aircraft thousands of feet in the air.  And that it was with him when he was in Afghanistan and he was on patrol one day and a bullet struck him in the lower back shattering part of his spine.

  And at that moment, the soldier said, as he lay on the ground in agony, the one thought that came to his mind was “What would Sturm do?”

  For those who do not know and have not read Dragonlance. In the Chronicles there is a character called Sturm Brightblade. Cheesy name I know. But he was of the order of the honorable Solamnic Knights. And in Dragons of Winter Flame, he stays behind when his order is destroyed on a foolish attack defying orders. And then he stands on the walls of a keep as enemy soldiers on Dragons assault knowing he has no hope of survival, terrified, but determined to buy his friends time to find a means to defeat the enemies and save the people.

  Sturm dies.  He was a character always driven by his honor and sense of duty but also very human. He doubted himself all the way to the end but  proved to be braver and more honorable than any of the other soldiers he fought with. He was a character designed to be your tragic hero from the very beginning. His death was a tragic yet glorious larger than life kind of thing, yet told in a kind of first person perspective that made you feel the futility of it and the overriding fear and determination that pushed him. His death that effects all the characters in the story greatly and probably is the turning point that allows the War of the Lance to ultimately be won by the heroes.

  His death also apparently affected this young soldier.  For as he told his favorite authors, that thought: “What would Sturm do?” gave him the courage and will to get up in spite of his injury. It was enough to convince him to yell out a warning to his squad mates of the impending attack just in the nick of time. And that courageous act, according to him, probably saved thirty lives that day.

  The boy then gave Tracy Hickman and Margaret Weis his bronze star and his purple heart and told them that they deserve those. That it was because of them that those lives were saved.

  Tracy Hickman said after that ending his speech, that whenever he thinks of this incident or looks at those medals he is reminded that what we write matters.

  And that’s what his story reminded me. That these little words on a screen on a blog few will ever discover and fewer still will ever read, matters.  It is NOT a game. Though it can be fun, it’s NOT just for fun. It’s more than that. A few words can change someone. A story told can make a difference in someone’s life for the better. An essay could one day cause someone to do something good for someone, or to BE a better person than they otherwise would be.

  And then again there’s the other side. Our words matter so our words can hurt too. They can bring out the darker side of people. They can drive people to anger and bitterness. We can write something that misleads. We can share something that leads someone to think worse of people or to do terribly things to one another.

  It’s an awesome responsibility being a writer. If even one person is hurt by your words, then that’s your responsibility. If even one person is raised to be a little tiny bit better, then that’s a victory. That’s a cause worth fighting for.

  But is it worth it? I sometimes wonder this a lot. When I know my words have hurt and I know my choices at times have not been the best. I wonder if maybe in sum total my writing in emails and blogs and ims and messages… causes more harm than good. Maybe I’ve hurt more than I’ve helped. Maybe in my carelessness the words haven’t done what they should or I haven’t found the words that will REALLY make a difference.

  So why write then? If the risks are so great, if the responsibility so enormous. If it’s so hard and heart wrenching and painful at times looking for those words looking for something to say that will actually REACH people when so much else that so many other people have said doesn’t. Why subject myself to that I wonder? What makes me think I can do more good than bad? What makes me continue to think that perhaps *I* might matter if only a little bit?

  While I’m talking about fantasy writers let me mention another related story by an entirely different author. Recently I read a series called The Last Herald Mage by Mercedes Lackey. It’s an interesting series but one particular component of it stood out to me. 

  The author describes her main character Vanyel, as developing a kind of Hunger. A deep seated need to use his magical abilities to save lives, to help people who don’t have the same abilities he has. The way he describes it, it’s a need, a deep uncontrollable thirst. It has to do with the fact that, there’s no one else that can do what he does and that when he’s gone there won’t be anyone left to pickup the slack.

  It’s sort of related to the kind of duty bound feeling that Sturm felt.

  I don’t think that kind of a need and urgent feeling is really all that distinct to people who have magic or any other super special very unique or amazing ability.  We all have it to some extent or another. A driving need to use our abilities whatever they might be for the better.

  That’s how it is for me too. I write in spite of the risks and in spite of my fears because I have that driving need. I have that urge. I *have* to write. Partly it’s for myself. It gives me the needed relief. It makes me feel… connected to people. It can stop me from feeling like I’m going to go insane with all these thoughts bouncing randomly through my head.

  But it’s MORE than that. Not just for myself but for others. For everyone else. For the world we live in that is all too often crazy and wrong. I have to *try*.  I don’t ever know and I can’t ever be certain if a single thing I say ever makes a difference, but even so I have to. It’s not that I think I have some special ability or that my words are any better than anyone elses. They aren’t. I know they’re not. But I am driven as driven as I can be to try to use this one of the things I CAN do to try and make a difference if I can. To share, to teach, to inform, to try and develop an understanding of the world, of people, of life and share it. To talk about it.  Because maybe if  I didn’t, nobody else would. And I couldn’t live with myself knowing the possibilities of what could happen to the world if we all just stay in our little isolated worlds and never tried to reach one another and never tried to understand one another.

  It’s a strange way of thinking. I write because I need to write. I’m wired to it. And then I spend all my time worrying that all this time I spend writing might just be a waste of my time or worse result in changes for the worse. But then I keep reminding myself, to ward off the depression and self doubt, that sometimes just sometimes writing really does matter and it CAN make a difference.

  And that’s what I keep striving to do.

  • 9:39 pm
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