Sands from a Distant Shore

Ah! Thank you! Well, I really dislike the ‘Rebellious Princess’ narrative for three reasons, and I’ll just go into them below before talking about more interesting approaches

It’s Classist. 

This is the most obvious issue. Your hero is a rebel princess, born into a life of status and privilege. She is the 1%.

You remember this comic making its rounds on social media? 

Your rebel Princess is Richard.

Every time the Princess laments that she’s trapped by her own wealth and status, she ignores the fact that her problems are minute and petty in the grander narrative. Princesses are inherently privileged, and it’s ignorant to ignore their own wealth in favour of chasing some bohemian ‘freedom’. 

We get it, kiddo. You hate needlework and you don’t want to be Queen. But your kingdom is in the middle ages, people eat dirt and no one is happy. The Princess might yearn for some vague concept of ‘something more’, but that’s myopic and selfish when her people yearn for electricity and proper sanitation. 

I have extreme difficulty enjoying Star vs the Forces of Evil.

2. It pits the hero against other women to make her rebellion look good. 

So you have your Princess who rejects the institution of traditional femininity. All well and good. But in order for her to be rebellious, there must be an institution in the first place for her to reject.

Enter The Institution. Call her St Olga’s Reform School for Wayward Princesses, call her Prudence, or Marina Del Rey. No matter what she looks or acts like, you know you’ve seen her before. She’s prudish, traditionally feminine, tough as nails, and probably sews her own ballgowns on her weekends off. 

She is a perfectly good woman in any other sense, but since she’s everything your princess doesn’t want to be, conflict has to arise from the princess fighting her and her ideals. 

And of course, the princess will win, because traditional femininity is evil. 

Oh, Prudence, you deserved so much more than the Disney Sequel you got.

In a feminist world there’s nothing wrong with fighting old ideas of what women should act like - but in a postmodern feminist world, one must be aware that some women willingly are quite happy to be traditionally feminine, and some don’t have the luxury of choice to pick whatever kind of femininity they embody.

Pitting the ‘feminist’ rebel princess against traditionally feminine women is a microaggression in itself: we have never needed to sell men an empowerment narrative by pitting men against each other, so why start here? Also note that Disney is extremely fond of this, especially in marketing Frozen and its reboot movies by saying it’s better than ‘classic princess’ movies because ‘classic princesses’ needed men:

“That’s a bit different from the animation, I think, it’s not about Cinderella just being rescued by a man.”  

3. It’s a White-Feminist narrative. 

Oh GOD is it a White-Feminist narrative!

I said before that some woman don’t have the luxury to be rebel princesses, and some willingly want to be traditionally femme. This is especially so in POC cultures. 

In Chinese culture, the concept of filial piety is a very important one: to be dutiful and respectful to your parents, and placing your family’s honour and their values above your own. 

Mulan does not have the luxury of ‘rebellion’. Rebellion would dishonour her family, rebellion would shame her parents. Mulan’s entire character arc exists to teach her to balance her parent’s needs with her own, and it ends with her bestowing her war prizes to her father - at the height of her own glory she doesn’t forget where she came from - and it’s the greatest show of honour she could possibly give.

To turn Mulan into a rebel princess would be to undermine everything her culture and the folklore surrounding her represents. A lot of these themes are repeated in Moana - how much of yourself do you give up to make your parents happy? What is the true meaning of tradition? When you exist for other people can you still know who you are? 

Moana is great. Watch it. 

Making White Feminist statements like ‘my princesses isn’t like a classic princess! she feminist and doesnt need to listen to anyone!’ does a massive disservice to other cultures who have to balance force of will with filial piety. 

So, about those Interesting Narratives…

Pans Labyrinth (2006) is thematically about ‘rebellion’ - it’s set in the Spanish Civil War and half of its narrative is about fighting a military dictatorship. It’s other half is about Ofelia (a fairy changeling), who is given instructions so that she can return to the magical world. Ofelia proceeds to mess all of them up: she eats from a magical table when she’s told to take no food, she refuses to kill an infant to open a gate to her homeworld. While excited to be a princess, Ofelia struggles to cope with the morally dubious or downright strange demands she’s presented with. Her rebellion isn’t a girl with a weapon in her hand: it’s a girl who legitimately wants to be a princess but isn’t cruel enough to do what it takes to get there.  

The Raven

There once was a girl named Lenore And a bird and a bust and a door And a guy with depression And a whole lot of questions And the bird always says “Nevermore.”

Footprints in the Sand There was a man who, at low tide Would walk with the Lord by his side Jesus said “Now look back; You’ll see one set of tracks. That’s when you got a piggy-back ride.”

Response to ‘This Is Just To Say’ This note on the fridge is to say That those ripe plums that you put away Well, I ate them last night They tasted all right Plus I slept with your sister. M’kay?

Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening There once was a horse-riding chap Who took a trip in a cold snap He stopped in the snow But he soon had to go: He was miles away from a nap.

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night There was an old father of Dylan Who was seriously, mortally illin’ “I want,” Dylan said “You to bitch till you’re dead. “I’ll be pissed if you kick it while chillin’.”

Have I called you a summer’s day yet?

Like the sun, and ur makin me sweat

Even Death is dismayed

Cuz you castin’ no shade

A tygre with dread symmetry did burn so brilliantly  that I asked with a fright in the forest of night, “Did God make the lamb and thee?”

Believe Me, if All Those Endearing Young Charms Thomas Moore

My love whom I gaze on today, if all your looks faded away I would love you still more than ever before and in love with you always I’d stay.

The Lady of Shalott Alfred, Lord Tennyson

A tender young lass from Shalott, was forbidden to spy Camelot. But within her mirror, Lancelot did appear, now the lass from Shalott is not.

Catullus 16 Catullus

Humans quickly get a reputation among the interplanetry alliance and the reputation is this: when going somewhere dangerous, take a human.

Humans are tough. Humans can last days without food. Humans heal so fast they pierce holes in themselves or inject ink for fun. Humans will walk for days on broken bones in order to make it to safety. Humans will literally cut off bits of themselves if trapped by a disaster.

You would be amazed what humans will do to survive. Or to ensure the survival of others they feel responsible for.

That’s the other thing. Humans pack-bond, and they spill their pack-bonding instincts everywhere. Sure it’s weird when they talk sympathetically to broken spaceships or try to pet every lifeform that scans as non-toxic. It’s even a little weird that just existing in the same place as them for long enough seems to make them care about you. But if you’re hurt, if you’re trapped, if you need someone to fetch help?

Humans want to go everywhere, you see that black hole? They’re trying to go in that to ‘explore’

Humans jump out of flying vehicles at heights that would most certainly kill them with only a piece of cloth strapped to them to save them, they do this for FUN

Conversely humans, a species that cannot survive without air, plunge themselves into the depths of their planet’s horrifying oceans until their bodies can’t take the pressure then they created vehicles to go further

Humanity didn’t wait to develop a sensible propulsion system to escape their planet’s atmosphere they strapped a metal tube to bombs and shot themselves out into the vacuum of space

Instead of whispered, consider:

murmured

mumbled

muttered

breathed

sighed

hissed

mouthed

uttered

intoned

susurrated

purred

said in an undertone

gasped

hinted

said low

said into someone’s ear

said softly

said under one’s breath

said in hushed tones

As mentioned in previous posts: These are not synonyms for whispered. You can’t use them interchangeably. Let’s go through them.

“Well,” she whispered, “I suppose I haven’t got a choice.”

The character is speaking in a voice so low it’s become words made of breath, probably because she doesn’t want to be heard.

“Well,” she murmured, “I suppose I haven’t got a choice.”

The character is saying this very quietly, but above a whisper. She may be talking to herself.

“Well,” she mumbled, “I suppose I haven’t got a choice.”

The character is speaking under her breath in low enough tones that her words may sound unclear or slurred. Also very possibly talking to herself.

“Well,” she muttered, “I suppose I haven’t got a choice.”

The character is speaking lowly, but more clearly than a mumble. She sounds angry, irritated, or dully frustrated.

“Well,” she breathed, “I suppose I haven’t got a choice.”

Breathing words may mean relief, exasperation, or exhaustion, and sound half like a sigh. Oh, look–

“Well,” she sighed, “I suppose I haven’t got a choice.”

The character is almost certainly not happy. She’s speaking in a tired, heavy breath.

“Well,” she hissed, “I suppose I haven’t got a choice.”

The character’s words are coming out in low, very sharp breaths. She sounds angry, irritated, or maybe just in an intense moment.

“Well,” she mouthed, “I suppose I haven’t got a choice.”

The character is using the barest hint of her voice, if any at all. Her lips are silently forming the syllables.

“Well,” she uttered, “I suppose I haven’t got a choice.”

Using uttered in this particular type of descriptive sense actually just sounds awkward. That said, ‘utter’ sounds like a word that implies speech in low yet strong and loud tones, well-enunciated, like someone preaching.

“Well,” she intoned, “I suppose I haven’t got a choice.”

The tone of her voice is dull and flat, with little variance in pitch. She is saying this without much emotion (intentionally or not).

Fuck “susurrated”.

“Well,” she purred, “I suppose I haven’t got a choice.”

The manner she’s speaking in is silky, smooth, and particularly pleased; quite possibly smug. In this particular example, this implies she probably does have a choice about [whatever it is] and is being facetious.

“Well,” she said in an undertone, “I suppose I haven’t got a choice.”

This is bad, because an undertone is something that needs describing. That’s like saying “her dress was a color”.

“Well,” she gasped, “I suppose I haven’t got a choice.”

The character is speaking in a sharp intake of breath, probably brought on by surprise or shock. She could also be short of breath, being strangled or something.

“Well,” she hinted, “I suppose I haven’t got a choice.”

The character has particular (duh) hint-hint tones in her voice as she speaks to someone. One can just imagine her leaning over closer to their ear.

“Well,” she said low, “I suppose I haven’t got a choice.”

Her voice has dropped below normal pitch, but is above a whisper. There’s a certain amount of dullness in the tone, probably.

“Well,” she said, into his ear, “I suppose I haven’t got a choice.”

This implies nothing about the actual voice, just that she’s literally speaking right into his ear (perhaps at normal volume, which would be painful). It doesn’t, on its own, carry any connotations of tone or emotion.

“Well,” she said softly, “I suppose I haven’t got a choice.”

I have a personal beef with the word “softly” on account of writers in a certain area of a certain MMO that use that word for fucking everything; speech, movement, touch, footsteps, because it helps to passively describe their character as delicate and pretty or something.

It’s a personal beef. There’s nothing really wrong with the word. Moving on.

Saying something softly implies not only a lowered pitch but a certain gentleness (or at least lack of weight) in tone.

“Well,” she said under her breath, “I suppose I haven’t got a choice.”

This is very like muttered, murmured, etc – it sounds (dur) breathier, and is more likely to imply a person talking to themselves.

“Well,” she said in hushed tones, “I suppose I haven’t got a choice.”

Now you’re getting closer to an equal term for “whispered”; hushed tones could mean that, or half-whispered. It does imply a certain amount of whisperiness or breathiness. It also implies a deliberate attempt to be quiet.

“Well,” she insinuated, “I suppose I haven’t got a choice.”

Like with ‘uttered’, this feels grammatically weird in that it’s usually a thing a person describes another person as doing (“Greg didn’t say it, but he insinuated it!”), but whatever. It’s similar to hinting; it means you’re trying to imply or subtly convey something, but has nothing to do with actual whispers.

Said is not a dirty word.

“Dreams,” Barry B. Longyear

rest stops on highways

trails by the highway just out of earshot of traffic

schools during breaks

those little beaches right next to ferry docks

your friends living room once everybody but you is asleep

the lighting section of home depot

A lot of these places are called liminal spaces - which means they are throughways from one space to the next. Places like rest stops, stairwells, trains, parking lots, waiting rooms, airports feel weird when you’re in them because their existence is not about themselves, but the things before and after them. They have no definitive place outside of their relationship to the spaces you are coming from and going to. Reality feels altered here because we’re not really supposed to be in them for a long time for think about them as their own entities, and when we do they seem odd and out of place.

The other spaces feel weird because our brains are hard-wired for context - we like things to belong to a certain place and time and when we experience those things outside of the context our brains have developed for them, our brains are like NOPE SHIT THIS ISN’T RIGHT GET OUT ABORT ABORT. Schools not in session, empty museums, being awake when other people are asleep - all these things and spaces feel weird because our brain is like “I already have a context for this space and this is not it so it must be dangerous.” Our rational understanding can sometimes override that immediate “danger” impulse but we’re still left with a feeling of wariness and unease. 

This is really cool.

A light so distant, so cold Carried reassurance from heaven Let me know I’m not alone

Your gentle promise, so warm whispered on the water like velvet, A fragile and unearthly form

Oh, my dearest moon, Your white glow across the earth Soft snow upon my soul

I remember him as a gangling man with a wiry beard that made him look older than he probably was, and he carried a leather bag filled with paper. He had a pen too that was shaped like a carrot, and he used it to scribble down notes between answering our (frankly disinterested) questions. We had no idea who he was you see, no one had made an effort to introduce us to his books. We were simply told one morning, ‘class 1b, there is an author here to talk to you about writing’, and this you see was our introduction to creative writing. We’d surpassed finger painting and macaroni collages. It was time to attempt Words That Were Untrue.

You could tell from the look on Mrs M’s face she thought it was a waste of time. I remember her sitting off to one side marking papers while this tall man sat down on our ridiculously short chairs, and tried to talk to us about what it meant to tell a story. She wasn’t big on telling stories, Mrs M. She was also one of the teachers who used to take my books away from me because they were “too complicated” for me, despite the fact that I was reading them with both interest and ease. When dad found out he hit the roof. It’s the one and only time he ever showed up to the school when it wasn’t parents night or the school play. After that she just left me alone, but she made it clear to my parents that she resented the fact that a ten year old used words like ‘ubiquitous’ in their essays. Presumably because she had to look it up.

Anyway, Mr Scott, was doing his best to talk to us while Mrs M made scoffing noises from her corner every so often, and you could just tell he was deflating faster than a bouncy castle at a knife sharpening party, so when he asked if any of us had any further questions and no one put their hand up I felt awful. I knew this was not only insulting but also humiliating, even if we were only little children. So I did the only thing I could think of, put my hand up and said “Why do you write?”

I’d always read about characters blinking owlishly, but I’d never actually seen it before. But that’s what he did, peering down at me from behind his wire rim spectacles and dragging tired fingers through his curly beard. I don’t think he expected anyone to ask why he wrote stories. What he wrote about, and where he got his ideas from maybe, and certainly why he wrote about ghosts and other creepy things, but probably not why do you write. And I think he thought perhaps he could have got away with “because it’s fun, and learning is fun, right kids?!”, but part of me will always remember the way the world shifted ever so slightly as it does when something important is about to happen, and this tall streak of a man looked down at me, narrowed his eyes in an assessing manner and said, “Because people told me not to, and words are important.”

I nodded, very seriously in the way children do, and knew this to be a truth. In my limited experience at that point, I knew certain people (with a sidelong glance to Mrs M who was in turn looking at me as though she’d just known it’d be me that type of question) didn’t like fiction. At least certain types of fiction. I knew for instance that Mrs M liked to read Pride and Prejudice on her lunch break but only because it was sensible fiction, about people that could conceivably be real. The idea that one could not relate to a character simply because they had pointy ears or a jet pack had never occurred to me, and the fact that it’s now twenty years later and people are still arguing about the validity of genre fiction is beyond me, but right there in that little moment, I knew something important had just transpired, with my teacher glaring at me, and this man who told stories to live beginning to smile. After that the audience turned into a two person conversation, with gradually more and more of my classmates joining in because suddenly it was fun. Mrs M was pissed and this bedraggled looking man who might have been Santa after some serious dieting, was starting to enjoy himself. As it turned out we had all of his books in our tiny corner library, and in the words of my friend Andrew “hey there’s a giant spider fighting a ghost on this cover! neat!” and the presentation devolved into chaos as we all began reading different books at once and asking questions about each one. “Does she live?”— “What about the talking trees” —“is the ghost evil?” —“can I go to the bathroom, Miss?” —“Wow neat, more spiders!”

After that we were supposed to sit down, quietly (glare glare) and write a short story to show what we had learned from listening to Mr Scott. I wont pretend I wrote anything remotely good, I was ten and all I could come up with was a story about a magic carrot that made you see words in the dark, but Mr Scott seemed to like it. In fact he seemed to like all of them, probably because they were done with such vibrant enthusiasm in defiance of the people who didn’t want us to.

The following year, when I’d moved into Mrs H’s class—the kind of woman that didn’t take away books from children who loved to read and let them write nonsense in the back of their journals provided they got all their work done—a letter arrived to the school, carefully wedged between several copies of a book which was unheard of at the time, by a new author known as J.K. Rowling. Mrs H remarked that it was strange that an author would send copies of books that weren’t even his to a school, but I knew why he’d done it. I knew before Mrs H even read the letter.

Because words are important. Words are magical. They’re powerful. And that power ought to be shared. There’s no petty rivalry between story tellers, although there’s plenty who try to insinuate it. There’s plenty who try to say some words are more valuable than others, that somehow their meaning is more important because of when it was written and by whom. Those are the same people who laud Shakespeare from the heavens but refuse to acknowledge that the quote “Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them“ is a dick joke.

Cyril Rolando is a digital art painter with an obsession for surrealism. Based in France, this artist who is also a psychologist has a deep understanding of the inner workings of the human mind. Tim Burton’s grim and brooding stories as well as Hayao Miyazaki’s larger than life cartoon plots have been a source of inspiration in his work.

Fanfic or original

FANFIC OR ORIGINAL

agh…