YA Fairy Tales

I would never go so far as to say "divine intervention." I wouldn't even say the "Universe" is being extra helpful. Let's just say, for the sake of argument, because I'm on a Jung kick and I fancy myself a writer, that the collective unconscious and my inner voice are on the same page.

I've been thinking about fiction. My need to escape into it. The relief it gives me and every other reader as we transcend worlds. I also thought about what most YA books have in common: an ordinary protagonist who isn't ordinary after all, tossed with elements of myth, the supernatural, the fantastic, and don't forget a mysterious love interest (preferably with electric blue or green eyes). It's a repetitive, cliche, and well-proven formula that appeals to women of all ages. If you follow the formula, it's pretty hard to fuck up (or fok up), whether it's vampires, ghosts, gods and goddesses, demons and/or Jinn. Oh, I forgot witches. There's usually witches.

Then it occurred to me: these engrossing yet ridiculous stories are the fairy tales of this age. And even for all their shortcomings, they offer sweet relief from kids and work and stress and adulting and, worst of all in 2017, politics. And it's not entirely a cop-out on my part. Good writers are constantly reading (or so I've read). And I might have writer's block, but there's no such thing as reader's block, at least not for me. I'll be eternally busy from now until I reach the clearing at the end of the road.

Per my current norm, I delved into a new book (although I have eight others I'm already reading). I picked up The Hero with a Thousand Faces, by Joseph Campbell at a used bookstore because the subject of heroes and myth and their relation to religion piqued my interest.

What I found in the introduction was unexpected and uncanny. As disjointed and confused as my thoughts have been in the last few months, I seem to be on the right track.

"Freud, Jung and their followers have demonstrated irrefutably that the logic, the heroes, and the deeds of myth survive into modern times."

"In the absence of an effective general mythology, each of us has his [or her] private, unrecognized, rudimentary, yet secretly potent, pantheon of dream."

Finally, I can explain why I'm driven to expel this drivel, and why my drivel tends toward the fantastic. Why the supernatural enraptures and the mysterious makes my heart sing. My writing is my own pantheon of dream. And tapping into it, Campbell goes on to explain, can open the door to "the whole realm of the destined and feared adventure of the discovery of self" (pg. 8). No wonder I'm so mad. And by mad, I mean crazy.

But you knew that already.

J. L. Dodd

Works Cited:

Campbell, Joseph. The Hero with a Thousand Faces. Bollingen Foundation, 1949.

Tumbleweeds be tumbling

Happy 2017!

I'm trying to be happy. Trying to have a positive outlook on the coming year. I mean, there's no reason not to, right?

I'm struggling. But I'm certain I'm not alone in my struggle.

I have hope, of course. I've discovered through a series of silly and unrelated events that I have cultivated a fondness for tumbleweeds. I'm not even sure when it started; I've been around them most of my life and not given them a second thought. However, recently I was driving back from Tucson on a windy day, and they were crossing I-10 like cattle. And, for whatever reason (I don't need a reason, bitches. I accept my weirdness.) it made me stupid happy to witness that iconic western scene.

Since then, I've made it my mission to rescue and release wild tumbleweeds. I kid, but I did pick up a particularly large one that found it's way into town, brought it home, and put Christmas ornaments on it. I've yet to release it into the wild, though I plan to.

Long explanation short, I'm considering it an excellent omen that on New Year's Day I was sitting in my car at the grocery store when two out of control tumbleweeds crossed that massive asphalt clearing and nearly hit my car before continuing on their journey. For an instant, I considered jumping out and following them. Where would I be now, had I done so? But they don't have the slightest clue where the wind is taking them. Just like I don't have the slightest idea what 2017 will hold for me. I have resolutions of course. Mostly exercise. And writing. I'm not discouraged that I've been writing for 6 years now and haven't finished anything. Drops in the bucket, as my friend would say. The important thing is that I'm still writing and still reading. These two small things have the potential to save me and are essential to my happiness. And, damn it, I want to do what makes me happy, and not do what makes me unhappy. Is that too fucking much to ask? Probably.

I guess I'm not the only one afflicted with this love (or perhaps jealousy) for tumbleweeds and their carefree life (death) style.

Can a dead Russian plant be considered someone's spirit animal? I think anything is possible.

Happy New Year, people.

J. L. Dodd


Tumbling Tumbleweeds

See them tumbling down,
Pledging their love to the ground!
Lonely, but free, I'll be found,
Drifting along with the tumbling tumbleweeds

Cares of the past are behind,
Nowhere to go, but I'll find,
Just where the trail will wind,
Drifting along with the tumblin' tumbleweeds

I know when night is gone,
That a new world's born at dawn!
I'll keep rolling along,
Deep in my heart as a song,
Here on the range I belong,
Drifting along with the tumbling tumbleweeds

Tumbleweeds, tumbleweeds!
See them tumbling down,
Pledging their love to the ground!
Lonely, but free, I'll be found,
Drifting along with the tumblin' tumbleweeds


Links:

http://www.metrolyrics.com/tumbling-tumbleweeds-lyrics-sons-of-the-pioneers.html