KJ Hannah Greenberg
KJ Hannah Greenberg writes with attitude. She's old enough to wear purple. Her newest releases are: The Little Temple of My Sleeping Bag (Dancing Girl Press, 2014), The Immediacy of Emotional Kerfuffles (Bards and Sages Publishing, 2013), and Citrus-Inspired Ceramics (Aldrich Press, 2013).
Pleasure from Dangerous Reptiles Slithering under Trailer Homes
Successful writing is more than a mezze of scene building or of character development. Each bell tower or vacant lot, and every Glynis or Talrton must earn, from readers, at least a veneer of verity. So, word citizens juggle accounts, making Sp21 guns as palpable to milquetoast consumers as spider webs, and invite brazen, would-be mercenaries to consider the beauty of the dew that fails to bake off at sunrise.
Established writers, for the most part, realize that narrative does not have to reach for fresh structural archetypes, dip toward yet undiscovered routes of inquiry, manufacture innovative building blocks, or produce other aesthetically “pioneering” twaddle. Rather than striving for strata coaster status, most folks, who are grounded in the trade, set about supplying familiar magnetic moments. That is, we writers aim to supply records of commonplace experiences, no matter how much it seems we strive to tweak them.
True, our anchoring sentiments often get counterbalanced by our outlandish, orbital motions. When not trying to encapsulate the essence of “social progress,” of “personal growth,” or “species victories,” when not trying to fulfill some imagined obligation to self or others, we use literary tricks to have fun. Even in the absence of alleged motivation, creatives are known to be wonky.
It’s no secret that we groove on generating gelatinous beasts fond of mewing, spewing, and chewing up sundry, indigent postal workers or that we get our kicks from painting portraits of lurid love triangles. We also invoke, with all due intentionality, the shadowy, often mist-filled alleyways of olden Europe as readily as we poof speculative fiction, romance, or mystery, and usually do so for no better reason than to provide alternatives to watching the grass grow or to observing the accumulation of our belly button lint. When we evoke protagonists who sacrifice physical affection, professional attachments, or live to honor their convictions, we likewise do so for want of excitement.
That is, more often than not, like our readers, we take more pleasure from accounts of dangerous reptiles slithering under trailer park homes, and from depictions of super heroes’ dilemmas than from rants about the necessity of piquing cultural deviants’ sagging interest in living. In both our humanoid and squamate audiences, we’ve garnered an appetite for imagination-driven fiction and we get off by satisfying it.
Accordingly, in an effort to raise awareness about mundane goings on, our assemblages might music particular happenstances. Alternatively, they might illuminate global intrapersonal and interpersonal veracities. Original expression, even when truth gets morphed by inventiveness, remains a respected vista on society. It’s instructive to learn that other individuals fart, feign pleasure, and forget to actualize their inner selves. It’s comforting to see revealed the awkward angles of other persons’ childhoods, youths, maturity, midlives, and wisdom years
So, when you notice writers raising an intergalactic alert concerning: sticky monsters, assistant bank managers, alternate Tuesdays, olive dip, or sheep yoghurt, relax in the realization that both our current reality as well as that of outlander worlds makes for great discoveries about both soothing truths and common irritants. Chill; writers will forever employ brawls, deaths, and indiscretions, intermittent with gallantry, devotion, and surrender, not so as to illuminate life for humanity, but so as to develop vehicles for their amusement.