Books we should be watching!

Weirdly, I had movie people looking at Masks before I had book people looking at Masks. Because I was writing it as my thesis in an interdisciplinary master’s program, I spent a lot of classes hanging around with screenwriters, playwrights, poets, and the like, and because the program was well-connected to the highly regarded USC film school, we’d get a bunch of Hollywood types trooping through as guest speakers in our classes. One professor insisted that every student pitch his or her project to every guest speaker she had, even if it was a poet pitching to an editor who specialized in memoirs. And so it came about that I had my first conversation with a Hollywood development executive.

I had already figured out that I personally was not Hollywood material. I didn’t have the looks to compete in a field that still judges women heavily by their headshots, and a sleep disorder combined with an allergy to coffee meant that I could not compete with the other interns in the mailroom who pulled twenty-hour shifts in order to get out of the mailroom. Even if I’d really wanted to be a screenwriter, it just wasn’t in the cards. But I gamely pitched my little superhero story to the development guy, and ended up by saying, “Look, I have no interest in being a professional screenwriter. Basically, I’d want to partner with a pro, work together on a few drafts so I can legitimately tell the fans that they’ll like the script, and then go away and not bother you until the premiere. Except for maybe visiting the set once and taking pictures like a tourist. Do you do deals like that?”

Without blinking, the guy replied, “I fantasize about doing deals like that. What did you say your book was about again?”

Now, in light of the number of books out there whose authors would probably want no more involvement than that (if even that much), it surprises me that an industry that adapts huge numbers of books every year isn’t even looking at some very good prospects. A few examples, in no particular order, until I think of more …

1. Farmer Giles of Ham.  To begin with, this story is by J.R.R. Tolkien, so you’ve got a massive drooling fanbase built in. You don’t even need Peter Jackson-level budgets for this one—it’s a tidy little novella that would work well as a low-budget production. The tale is about a gruff farmer who finds a giant trampling his fields one night and shoots him with a blunderbuss. The giant isn’t really hurt, but he goes away and the farmer becomes a local hero. The farmer likes this very much … until an ancient, cunning and deliciously wicked dragon comes to town, and everyone expects the local hero and his blunderbuss to take care of the problem. Add in a magic sword that won’t stay in the sheath, a hilariously cowardly dog, some foppish knights, and a greedy king, and you’ve got the makings of a great animated feature. My personal wishlist includes Sean Bean as Giles, Stephen Fry as the voice of the dragon, and Hugh Laurie as the voice of the dog, but I’m flexible. As far as I know, no one’s even pursued an option on Farmer Giles of Ham.

2. The Crispin Guest mysteries. This is a personal favorite. I’m a great fan of the lovely Jeri Westerson’s vivid “medieval noir” mysteries about a disgraced former knight who atones for his past misdeeds by solving crimes in the shadowy streets of fourteenth-century London, usually with at least one holy relic per novel crossing his path in an interesting way. Cross Brother Cadfael with Philip Marlowe and you might have a little of Crispin … if either one of those men quoted Aristotle and was trying to teach a twelve-year-old street urchin how to act like a gentleman. Seriously—why has no one tried to option this as a movie or TV miniseries? I happen to know Westerson would be amenable …

3. The Blackcollar. This has to be one of the best concepts ever for an all-star action movie. Based loosely on the Japanese legend (itself loosely rooted in history) of the 47 ronin, Timothy Zahn’s 1983 debut novel was about a group of commando super-soldiers who fought in a war to save humanity from an alien invasion … and lost. Now, after thirty years of living in deep cover as embittered veterans, a group of surviving commandos—“blackcollars”—gets an opportunity to strike back against their alien conquerors. The real show here is the game of chess between the brilliant strategist Damon Lathe, leader of the blackcollars, and a local human security official named Galway who’s just as brilliant but determined to stop the blackcollars so the aliens don’t nuke his planet in order to kill a few malcontents. Now imagine someone doing this as a sci-fi action movie … using the action stars of yore (since all the blackcollars are at least fifty, most are in their sixties, and a few are over seventy). Am I the only one who’d like to see Clint Eastwood as Lathe? Perhaps I am, because Zahn recently went back to round off his two-book adventure into a trilogy, and the structure screams Hollywood option, but there’s nary a peep.

4. He That Hath Wings. Now that CGI is really cooking, someone has to do this. A 1938 short story by Edmond Hamilton (one of the pioneers of Golden Age science fiction), “He That Hath Wings” is about just what it sounds like … a boy with wings. The product of a freak accident during his mother’s pregnancy that killed his father, the boy is raised in isolation after his mother dies and is as much at home in the sky as any human being could be on land. When he finally ventures out into the wider world, he falls in love with a human girl and has his wings amputated so he can fit in with her normal family. Then one day his wings start to grow back … and he has to choose between the ordinary life he thought he always wanted and the sky that beckons him once again. I won’t spoil the magnificent ending for you, but I urge any screenwriter with a hankering for fantasy to seek out this oft-reprinted and never-adapted gem.

5. The Compleat Werewolf. This one was practically written as a movie. A hilarious novella by the Golden Age great Anthony Boucher, The Compleat Werewolf is about a professor of German who discovers that he can transform into a wolf by saying a magic word—but that in order to transform back he has to say the word “absarka,” which he cannot pronounce when he has a wolf’s vocal equipment. (The ways he finds to get other people to say the improbable word are … memorable.) Hilarity ensues involving commie spies, a sultry starlet, and a professor of ancient languages who dabbles in the fake occult. The novella happens to be structured exactly like a textbook screenplay (I’ve used it as a teaching example), so I’m astonished that no one’s tried adapting it before now. Aren’t werewolves supposed to be the Next Big Thing? Come on, Hollywood!

Beating the dragon

The New York Times recently posted a piece that’s either very perceptive or blindingly obvious about the recent proliferation of bad or absent parents in young-adult fiction. (You can read it here.) The upshot is that YA fiction has recently turned up with a veritable swarm of adults who range from missing or merely negligent to full-on abusive or so helpless that their kids are doing the parenting. There’s a bit of hand-wringing over this, and it reminded me of my very first reader snit over the portrayal of parents in my own writing.

The reader having the snit was my father.

I was about seventeen, and I had been getting fan mail from readers for two years and my parents were beginning to realize that I might be serious about this writing thing. (For the record, I hadn’t realized it—I tried rather hard to have any career but writing until I found myself in grad school and unable to find any other kind of work. Really, it’s lucky that I love writing more than any other job in the world.) I refused to let my parents read my work at the time, for what I thought was a very good reason—I believed it was terrible. Even as a child, I had judged my writing by the most adult standard possible. I used to tell my English teachers, “Don’t tell me my writing’s good for a twelve-year-old. Tell me if it’s good. If you read it in a bookstore, would you buy it?” (I realize now what a terrible thing that is to say to a teacher, and I hereby apologize to all the teachers I caused to fear for my sanity—and no, I don’t know why I was so fixated on writing at an adult level when I insisted I didn’t want to be a professional writer. Maybe I was trying to master it and get it out of my system?) And while I was willing to burden my friends with my childish efforts at storytelling, I wouldn’t dream of bothering the two very busy adults in my life with such frivolity. Bad enough they insisted on going to my school plays. Besides, Mom didn’t read much for pleasure and Dad stuck strictly to nonfiction and murder mysteries, so what point was there in sharing my superhero adventures with them? They didn’t enjoy the genre even when it was done well.

This all seemed very logical to me, and it apparently convinced my father that I was hiding something. He pulled me aside one day and told me that I was, by God, going to put his name on my e-mail distribution list because “your mother thinks you’re writing pornography, and that’s why you don’t want us to see it.” I rolled my eyes and added him to the list, deeply annoyed. I thought that once he noticed my stories were nothing but juvenile humor, superheroic slap-fights, and adolescent attempts at emotional depth, he’d leave me alone and probably stop reading them altogether.

Stop laughing. Everybody’s allowed to be stupid at seventeen. It’s in the rules somewhere.

A few weeks later, he called me into his office and sat me down for a stern talking-to. Why, he wanted to know, were Rae’s parents absent from the story? Trevor was an orphan, and most of the other teenage characters were orphans, runaways, or the products of such nasty home lives that they were blasé about deceiving their parents and guardians about what they did all night on the city’s rooftops. Only Rae seemed to come from a stable nuclear family, and yet her folks barely got a sentence in any given chapter. Was I trying to make some veiled statement about my own family?

I rolled my eyes again. (I was a champion eye-roller.) The answer seemed obvious to me, but Dad kept pestering until I finally said, "It’s because I don’t want to write about parents. DUH!”

And I didn’t. I still don’t, really—at least, not normal, well-adjusted parents. My relationship with my own parents has always been complex, and I frankly didn’t want anyone trying to read anything into that relationship based on my writing—so I left them out. It seemed the best way to protect my privacy, and besides, what kind of parents would support their offspring’s desire to throw themselves off rooftops anyway? I’ll tell you what kind—the bad kind! Any good parents in my stories had to be lied to and excluded, or they’d stop all the interesting parts of the story from happening.

YA literature now, of course, overflows with bad parents. Is it because it’s natural for teenagers to see their parents as enemies and obstacles? I don’t remember seeing mine that way (well, except when they thought I was writing porn). My folks’ greatest offense while I was in high school was my father’s unconscionable decision to have a heart attack on a business trip three days before the school production of Our Town opened with me in a leading role. And frankly, I hated that production so much that I was glad Mom had to fly out of town to be with him. I was an orphan on opening night, and I liked it that way. Likewise, my friends all had pretty good relationships with their folks, although a couple of parents really lost it when we went off to college.

Perhaps there’s something about being a teenager that makes you want bad parents if you don’t have them—it’s part of having the kind of romantic, adventurous life you don’t have time for between a mountain of homework and a 24-7 activity schedule. It was kind of fun to have all my friends fussing over me when I was an opening-night orphan, though it probably would have been less fun if Dad had actually been in danger rather than just unable to board an aircraft.

But mostly I think the choice is a matter of narrative convenience. Good parents try to protect their children from dangerous adventures for as long as possible. Mine were more laissez-faire than most—I was allowed to ride my bike down a busy street or play in the flood-control channel or feed my lunch to stray animals as long as I didn’t get seriously hurt—but I do think they would have eventually noticed if I’d started showing up with bruises or climbing out my bedroom window at midnight. If Rae’s parents were around enough to notice she was constantly getting injured or running off at all hours to spend time with a scruffy teenage runaway, they’d ground her until she was eligible for Social Security. And what good is a book like that?

Masks, like most YA books, is at least partly a coming-of-age story, a tale of characters making the transition from carefree childhood to adult responsibilities—or, in Rae’s and Trevor’s cases, from childhood responsibilities to adult responsibilities. That means disconnecting from the mothership for a while and finding out who you are when nobody’s looking over your shoulder. Trevor began making that transition when he was six years old and realized that, no matter how unfair it was, he was the only person who could keep Jude out of the morgue and himself out of foster care. Rae took her first step on that journey at age eight, when she found out what happens when there are no adults around to look out for you. By the time they meet, they are doing the jobs of adult heroes because there are no adult heroes around to do them. Partly, that’s narrative necessity—would adult superheroes willingly leave the world in the hands of a pair of powerless wannabes too young to vote?—and partly it’s because of a truth of adolescence that most parents prefer not to acknowledge.

Namely, that here there be dragons.

Before my high school graduation, every single teenager I knew had run into at least one situation that most adults would consider above a kid’s pay grade. Sometimes it was the sudden death of a classmate. Sometimes it was addiction or abuse. Sometimes it was a relationship gone horribly wrong. Sometimes it was an act of God, like an earthquake or a flood with terrible consequences. Sometimes it was a seemingly ordinary day that just went bad, and there was nothing to do but stop the bleeding, pick up the pieces, and wait for the cops, the paramedics, or the coroner to arrive.

I lived in one of the good neighborhoods, but by the time I graduated I or my immediate circle of friends and acquaintances had seen grim death by cancer and car wreck; abuse by parents, employers, and loved ones; two chronic medical conditions that could kill their sufferers at any time; a little light terrorism; a near-fatal eating disorder; assorted hijinks with drugs, alcohol, and sexual stupidity; a nice range of mental illness; and enough fires and other disasters to fill a season of daytime TV. We were, for the most part, the lucky ones, the “good kids” who kept our noses clean, studied hard in a good school, stayed out of gangs and off drugs, and tried to make something of ourselves. It didn’t stop us from walking down the wrong street or opening the wrong door. I think we still have video somewhere of one of us helping to amputate a guy’s leg with a saw. Life happens.

Parents usually aren’t there for that. Sometimes they show up at the ER later, but they’re not there when you have to make a choice that will set the course for the rest of your life. That falls to you. The most important test you take is the one whose date isn’t on the calendar. That’s what happens in Masks--the world needs saving, and the grown-ups aren’t there. I love reading science fiction, a genre whose authors believe they can prepare us for the future if they just tell enough interesting stories about it. That’s what I try to do in Masks. I know my readers will have to face those unexpected crises, if they haven’t already, and they’ll face some of them alone. I want them ready. Rae and Trevor hear screaming, and run toward it. I don’t expect my readers to do the same—but I want them to think about what they’ll do before the screaming actually starts.

The great Victorian author G.K. Chesterton was once asked whether he thought children should have fairy tales read to them, since they were full of darkness and violence and monsters and they ultimately weren’t “true”. His reply was memorable: “Fairy tales are more than true; not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten.”

Is it so wrong to hand St. George a sword?

Journal Video: The Secret Origin

Be gentle. I'm still figuring out this voiceover thing. :)

The MASKS Trailer

Features Carolyn Kabelitz and Jake Davis as the leads, with art by Derrick Fleece and Nicole Le. Also available on YouTube, MySpace, and Facebook!