Why are Batman and Superman fighting?¹ They’re both heroes!

Why did Man of Steel have to be so “dark” and “gritty” instead of happier?

Why didn’t Superman in the 2013 action film behave more like 1970s-80s Superman?

And why in the wide world of franchises did Superman kill General Zod and ignore the destruction of an entire town! He’s Superman! He’s not supposed to do that ever!

Click here to read the 8-part series.

These questions get explored and answered in SpecFaith’s Badfan v Superman series.

This is an “animated” eight-part discussion from last fall, featuring Austin Gunderson and myself. We explain the contexts and intentions in Man of Steel. We show how Superman’s decisions in Man of Steel make much sense given his growth at the time, his hyper-realized world without easy solutions, and the crisis he faced. We compare with previous Superman movies. We anticipate the sequel, Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice (March 25).

Do read the whole series. But in case you shan’t, here are several excerpts.

Badfan v Superman 1: Dawn of Rebuttal Justice

I would say that while Supes’ clothes-nabbing and semi shish-kabobing in Man of Steel are indeed illustrative of his imperfect state (mitigated by the fact that the clothes were being donated and the semi belonged to a man Supes very deliberately refrained from maiming), his destruction of Zod was both carefully calculated and supremely moral.

If Superman hadn’t snapped Zod’s neck in that moment of truth, I would’ve lost respect either for him (were he too weak or stubbornly idealistic to do what was necessary) or for the story-world that he inhabited (were he able to sidestep the problem by magically incapacitating Zod).

Badfan v Superman 2: Super-Nostalgia Knockdown

Forget how a good hero casually murders a villain with this one weird trick.

Folks who have that stereotypical memory of the Superman character should remember: in either version of Superman II, Superman turns quite selfish and jerky, surrenders his powers, and goes a-fornicating.

Oh — and he kills General Zod.

Yes, the Christopher Reeve idyllic Superman tricks and de-superpowers General Zod his Fortress of Solitude. Superman even pretends to surrender and vindictively squeezes Zod’s hand before throwing him to his death.

Badfan v Superman 3: Challenging Cheap Optimism

Snyder didn’t want viewers checking out with the comfortable assumption that Superman’s magic would once again win the day, even if it meant breaking all the rules of physics, reality, life, the universe, and everything. No, instead Snyder wanted the viewer to nervously slip on those big red boots, put himself in Supes’ position, and find to his disquiet that it doesn’t feel all that different. The scale may be grander and the blocks and punches faster, but the same moral dilemmas apply. Do you stand in the gap though you know others won’t like it? Do you choose to turn the other cheek even though you could break the other guy with your bare hands? And, if you do, at what point does restraint become complicity? How far do you go to protect those under immediate threat? How far is too far?

Badfan v Superman 4: Able to Leap Expectations

There’s plenty of room for different tones and story types in the superhero story genres. Some stories can be “lighter” and less challenging. Others can be more challenging, as Austin mentioned. Why exclude Superman? Because he’s old? Because he’s not cool? That’s chronological snobbery. Or is it because we’re simply all supposed to be Marvel fans now and make fun of “dark, brooding” stories? This is both ridiculous and inconsistent, because:

1. Man of Steel and its hero aren’t dark and brooding, only challenging.
2. Marvel recently kicked off its own “grimdark” offering with “Daredevil” on Netflix.

Badfan v Superman 5: You’ll Believe a Man Can Die

While it was nifty that the first film made us believe a man could fly, it was absolutely crucial for Man of Steel to make us believe a man could die. Snyder knew this; he knew that Superman’s invulnerability, narratively speaking, was his greatest weakness. But how do you scrape off that glossy sheen without sullying the character underneath? No one — least of all me — wanted to see another morally-rudderless Supes a la Superman Returns. No, to be worthy of admiration Supes has to be a bulwark. But if he’s gonna be interesting to watch, we need to see him struggle and legitimately fear for the outcome. And that’s a matter of tone.

And that’s why Man of Steel looks dark and moody, and it’s why Superman isn’t allowed to just pull a Kryptonian Prisoner Nonviolent Stasis Incarceration Module, or some such nonsense, out of his hat at the last possible second. No, this is a world where Superman, because of his moral strength, is physically and emotionally vulnerable.

Badfan v Superman 6: Game of Tones

In fact it is Man of Steel that takes Zod’s death (and the deaths of people in Metropolis) far more seriously than do the previous Superman films. Call it “grimdark” or mock it for being more “realistic” if you wish. But the fact is that it’s the more-idyllic Superman films that treat death more lightly and Man of Steel that gets closer to showing death for what it is.

And if you recall the last Superman movies being less violent, it’s actually you who should check to be sure you’re paying attention to the media!

Just because a story downplays consequences and tragedy and plays a victory march at the victory, doesn’t mean a character hasn’t died and likely even died horribly.

Badfan v Superman 7: A Hero’s Consequences

Fans were criticizing the “desensitization” of Man of Steel when in fact that story was re-sensitizing them to the horror of actual cinematic city-destruction and death. And meanwhile, fans—who don’t know any better—were giving a pass to other onscreen superhero stories that arguably do treat citywide destruction and death as par for the course (it’s just a movie, folks!) and arguably do desensitize viewers.

The real-world criticism of Man of Steel may be a microcosm of how we also respond to real death and destruction. We don’t want to see real horror. It makes us uncomfortable—because then we might have to make hard choices, even compromises. We might be asked to condemn or even fight real horrors beyond the ones we’re familiar with. ³. Or we might find ourselves being shoved off the “high ground” we believe we own simply because it’s a safe distance from the real-world challenges.

Badfan v Superman 8: A Moral Cinematic Universe

Now that we know for certain that the fallout from Supes’ battle with Zod will be a major plot point, I’m ecstatic. A Superman who appears in court is a Superman prepared to confront the implications of “collateral damage,” vigilante justice, and public ingratitude. More than that, a Batman willing to actually take action on the premise that “absolute power corrupts absolutely” is a Batman who operates on principle, rather than the insipid pragmatism so common in superhero stories. […]

So the reason many people dismiss the Batman-Superman showdown is ultimately the same reason people complained about Man of Steel: they prefer heroes who inhabit a separate moral universe. Batman should trust Superman “because he’s Superman, dagnabbit!” If we’re forced to watch Batman develop that trust, then we’ll have to grapple with whether we would trust Superman, too. Much easier for such dynamics to be offered up pre-cooked and pre-chewed — axiomatic assumptions that allow us to cut straight to consequence-free slugfests with villains we can all agree we’re supposed to hate. We want our heroes nonthreatening and our victories cheap.

Read the complete Badfan v Superman series, or share your thoughts on superhero ethics, Man of Steel, or the upcoming Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice below.

My latest book takes place in medieval Germany during the 14th century during the height of the bubonic plague, commonly known as the Black Death. The protagonist is a heartbroken young man who joins the Brotherhood of the Cross, flagellants who wandered from town to town, beating and whipping themselves as penance for their sins and the sins of others. The idea for this story sprouted almost three years ago when I was living in China. I was sitting in the back row of a crowded bus on my way to work, and during these trips, the ebook app on my phone was my constant companion. For reasons I still cannot explain, I had downloaded a 19th century nonfiction book called The Black Death and the Dancing Mania by Justus Friedrich Hecker from Project Gutenberg. I still remember the exact moment I read about the Brotherhood and their wanton exploits performed under the guise of penitent humility and I thought, “I’m going to write a book about these people.”

The trouble was, I still had to finish the sci-fi/horror story I was working on at the time, and next on the docket was an industrial disaster story that I had already started conjuring from creative ether. That book, set on a doomed oil rig, was a tremendous challenge, so much so that I enlisted the services of a real-life oil driller as my co-author. Even with help, writing that book was incredibly exhausting, but the completion was all the more rewarding. Of course, my imagination had little time to pat itself on the back, since I immediately threw myself headlong into my medieval plague story, which is now in the final editing stages. As work on this book wraps up, I am gearing up for my next leap into the abyss, a mix martial arts/demon possession horror thriller.

I have never worked on an oil rig; I’ve never even seen one with my own eyes. The last history class I took was more than a decade ago during my junior year of college, and I’m pretty sure it only covered the 20th century. Until a couple of weeks ago, I had never watched a UFC match from start to finish. Yet something has compelled me to write stories in these worlds which are quite foreign to me.

My previous books, a supernatural horror/action trilogy and the aforementioned sci-fi book, took place in more comfortable territory. My imagination leans heavily towards the Gothic side of things so writing stories like this did not present nearly the same challenges as my later books. I did fire off a quick novel a couple of years ago about a movie prop swordsmith in Southern California, and even though I had never been to California or visited a fantasy convention before, it wasn’t too difficult to research and write.

I don’t know why my imagination hates me and enjoys watching me squirm. I wish it would command me to write stories about grim, Gothic-tinged worlds since that’s where my headspace usually is. But as uncomfortable and challenging as these writing projects have been, I wouldn’t trade the experiences for anything. No one climbs a treacherous mountain and reaches the top, then looks down and says, “Well that was a waste of time.” Being stretched and pulled and emerging victorious is an incredible feeling, which naturally propels me to seek out other challenges. After the MMA fighting story, I’m planning on writing a nautical adventure set on an alien world. The last time I was on a boat in the ocean was when I was seven years old.

My challenge to you as a reader or writer is to not stay safe. That doesn’t mean you should abandon your niche, especially if you’ve built your name into a brand. As a lesser-known author, I have the freedom to experiment, though I plan to follow the same path even if recognition comes my way. So if you’re into high fantasy, steampunk, YA dystopian, or any genre that thrills your imagination, that’s great, but consider stepping out of your comfort zone once in a while. As a reader, you might discover something fresh and exciting, because it’s easy to get bored with stories that follow the same pattern. As a writer, the experience will certainly strengthen your semantic skills and will give you greater confidence. If you feel pulled in a strange direction, don’t fight it. You may not even particularly care for the setting of your story; I wasn’t especially interested in the world of oil drilling until I started researching it, and while it gave me a greater appreciation for this vast industry, I let my attention turn to the Middle Ages for my latest book. It’s almost like creative polygamy, but hey, when the relationship has run its course, no reason to hold onto the threads. Just file it away under “Good Writing Memories” and move on to the next project.

Go and seek out strange new literary worlds. There is a whole universe full of them.

Lord of the Rings. Hunger Games. Star Wars.

What do all these have in common? They’re wildly popular books and movies.

However, with such attention come with one huge downside, what I’m going to term the tragedy of popularity. What does that mean? Let’s look at three examples.

1. Hunger Games

Before it was published, how many people knew of and loved dystopian fiction? I can’t give you exact numbers, but I can say with confidence that the pool of dystopian fans flooded and rapidly became an ocean thanks to the Hunger Games craze.

For a few years, it was the thing. Everyone wanted to read dystopian fiction, especially if it was YA. And included a female heroine. The popularity of Hunger Games gave rise to numerous authors who jumped on the band wagon with gleeful abandon—some with more success than others. Popular series’ like Divergent come to mind.

When we see success, we want to emulate it. Being an author is hard enough already. Don’t we deserve a bit of a break? A boost to make our publishing dreams a reality? Why not cruise along in the wake of a phenomenon?

The downside is that after a while, the stories blend together into a dull buzz of sameness, instead of branching out with new melodies and harmonies that keep the tune distinctive and appealing.

After all, how many teenage girls do we need to see saving their country from oppressive governments?

2. Lord of the Rings

Turning to fantasy, Lord of the Rings is another example. Tolkien basically started the epic fantasy genre. He put fantasy on the map and changed the landscape of publishing, much to the delight of millions of adoring fans. But…

We all know what happened in the wake of this runaway success.

Rip-off stories. Derivative tales. LOTR wannabes. The market became flooded with stories that were so intent on cashing in on the popularity of Tolkien’s work that they ignored the need for novelty. Lord of the Rings was successful because it was different. It gave people a new adventure, a fresh perspective, a unique story.

Then the barbarian hordes rushed in, thinking to accomplish the same feats…and fell far short. Fantasy fans don’t want a story that’s Lord of the Rings with a different paint job and title. They want the same experiences Lord of the Rings gave them, but in new ways.

I have personal experience with this. My first fantasy series was LOTR-inspired…waaay too much so. My thinking went along the lines of, “People love LOTR, so if I write the next LOTR, people will love my stories.”

Note to self: O the foolishness of youth.

My siblings kept telling me it wasn’t that great, but it took the firm suggestions of a professional editor to make me realize copying Lord of the Rings was actually the worst thing I could do. Since then, I’ve focused on being as creative as possible, taking inspiration from dozens of sources, and writing stories that stay true to the roots of fantasy without becoming derivative.

3. Hollywood

Another area that falls prey to this problem is the movie industry, particularly with the surge of superhero films in recent years. Storytelling, by nature, is formulaic. There are only so many basic elements at your disposal. The genius is seen when a filmmaker or novelist can take those mundane elements and transform them into something magical.

Unfortunately, the need to be popular, to listen to the siren whisper of trends and line pockets with as much cash as possible, has led away from the creative side. Or so it seems to me. For all the sci-fi and fantasy movies Hollywood churns out, how many strike you as compelling in their uniqueness?

We get the same type of story, only with a different cast, different director, different setting, and so on.

The Need for Originality

Why is popularity a bad thing? It’s not, strictly speaking. The ebb and flow of the market’s demands is inevitable. Certain types of stories will bask in the spotlight for a time, usually led by a scintillating breakout series that paves the way for the rush of crazed fans (and cascades of money) to follow.

The problem—the tragedy—is the lack of creativity and originality such trends unintentionally cause.

Brandon Sanderson is a writer extraordinaire, and one of the major reasons why he’s my favorite author is because he manages to create the sense of familiarity fans crave without venturing into the dangerous land of been-there-read-that. He strikes a happy balance, which makes for some incredible stories.

That’s what popularity diminishes.

Where are the compelling ideas? The themes that make us think and the fresh plots that keep us riveted because, unlike so many movies or TV shows, we have no idea where they will lead?

Where’s the spark of pure creativity needed to craft robust, compelling narratives? Sadly, it’s been buried beneath popular demand. This is painfully apparent in Hollywood. People want action, explosions, buff heroes and kick-butt heroines.

Original ideas, infused with creativity and the bold daring to go where no story has gone before, have slowly been shoved. The book and film industries are businesses, after all. People need to earn a living, which means they need to tell the stories audiences want.

It’s a frustrating reality, and one I’ve struggled with as a writer myself. But consider this: the most popular stories are usually results of the author wanting to create a story he or she would want to read.

Stories that don’t stray too far from the safe pasture of proven formulas aren’t going away anytime soon, but I hope books, movies, and TV shows all receive a shot of creativity. The willingness to think outside the box and keep us fascinated with new ideas.

Ideas to allow our minds to soar. To make the impossible seem real. To snag our attention with something completely other, yet hauntingly familiar.

After all, that’s the fun of speculative fiction.

Do you think popularity is a bad thing? Is there anything we can or should do to change the trend?

FantasyFun Month is the brainchild of authors Jill Williamson and Patrick Carr, both with current fantasy series published by Bethany House.

Jill’s past fantasy includes the award-winning Blood Of Kings trilogy, and Patrick produced the equally well-received Staff And Sword trilogy.

Of late, Patrick has written the novella By Divine Right (free as an Amazon ebook) and the novel The Shock Of Night, both in The Darkwater Saga. Later this year book 2 of the series, The Shattered Vigil, will release.

The Saga begins with the free novella:

Willet Dura ekes out a living as an assistant reeve in the city of Bunard, the royal city, investigating minor and not-so-minor crimes in the poor quarter. Ever since a terrible battle, Willet’s been drawn to the dead, and has an uncanny ability not only to solve their crimes, but even to know when one has been committed.

When a gifted musician is found dead in the merchants’ quarter of the city, everyone assumes by the signs that the old man simply died of a stroke, but Willet’s intuition tells him better. When he learns that this is the second death within the last month of one of the gifted, those with a rare inherited ability, he begins to suspect that something more is afoot, and he soon finds himself chasing a mystery that could bring down the very kingdom of Collum.

Jill’s latest fantasy, available for pre-order, is due out in April under the title King’s Folly, though the three parts are already available as ebooks—Part 1, Darkness Reigns; Part 2, The Heir War; and Part 3, The End Of All Things. This is the first novel in the Kinsman Chronicles.

The gods are angry.

Volcanic eruptions, sinkholes, ground shakers–everything points to their unhappiness. At least that is what the king of Armania believes. His son Prince Wilek thinks his father’s superstitions are nonsense, though he remains the ever dutiful First Arm of Armania.

When a messenger arrives and claims that the town of Farway has been swallowed by the earth, the king sends Wilek to investigate. But what Wilek discovers is more cataclysmic than one lost city. Even as the ground shifts beneath his feet, Wilek sets out on a desperate journey to save his people and his world. But can he do it before the entire land crumbles?

To celebrate the fantasy genre, Jill and Patrick have put together a calendar of activities for fantasy fans to do and a hashtag that allows them to read what others participating have posted. The first week included things like favorite quote from a fantasy, favorite cover, favorite hero, and the like.

I didn’t get wind of FantasyFun until towards the end of the month, so didn’t jump in until the cover question. As I said in my Facebook post, I’m not big on covers—I don’t notice them very often and am not very picky, one way or the other. But the one I’ve settled on as my favorite caught my eye. I’m referring to Anne Elisabeth Stengl’s Dragonwitch, one of the Tales Of Goldstone Wood series.

For today, March 7, all participants are asked to name their favorite sidekick. My first thought is Samwise Gamgee from The Lord Of The Rings trilogy. He was faithful to his friend, brave, insightful and smart enough to know that he wasn’t called to be the hero—at least not the hero of the quest to destroy the One Ring (though he briefly gave in to the temptation to take on the role).

How about you? Who is your favorite sidekick?

And how about joining #FantasyFunMonth? You can post your answers on your own social media sites, but also on Spec Faith’s Facebook page. Of course, include the hashtag #FantasyFunMonth so other fans can find your answers more easily.

Here’s the schedule:

Joseph Fiennes portrays Roban tribune Clavius in Risen.

I reviewed the new film Risen last week at Christ and Pop Culture, starting with this:

Risen is a very good film that just happens to be marketed to faith-based audiences.

Please don’t be fooled. I am a skeptic — not of Jesus’s bodily resurrection, which serves as the historical basis for Risen’s story — but of “Christian” movies. I don’t dislike their idea, because Christians should have subcultures, too, but rather, their usual execution. However, Risen does what it wants, and fulfills its own goal not only with biblical truth but with creative excellence.

Much of the time I was sitting in the theater gripped by emotion. I felt this way partly because of my personal connection to my Savior’s resurrection. Yet I was also thinking, “This is good. This is actually good. Will it stop being good? No, it’s actually staying good.”

Finally, I put away that childish thought. I found myself caught up in a simply told story based on the Story that transcends our comparatively small debates over “Christian” movies and how brilliant/terrible they are. This story subverts all that just by setting about its job: exploring one (fictional) human person’s response to the results of the resurrected Christ.

Read the rest at Christ and Pop Culture, then feel free to return for these bonus thoughts:

Risen is fantastical and realistic

In my review I didn’t want to spoil the surprises of Risen. These moments show the power of God miraculously breaking into reality. Sometimes they are almost so careful that you miss them, but the results are undeniably miraculous.

However, the film only does this by first showing us “earthly things” we can believe:

• Our hero, Clavius, is empathetic, competent, flawed, sinful, and real;
• People he meets resemble universal human traits—familiar, yet transcendent;
• The story-world is believable and gritty, though not “grit” for its own sake.

Risen explores Bible themes other ‘Christian movies’ can’t or won’t

Risen succeeds partly by ignoring other Christian movies and avoiding any of their tropes. At first this is easy because the film attempts a genre Christians have enjoyed for years—biblical fiction. But this genre has been crowded aside by two more popular genres: straight-up Bible adaptations and contemporary morality/miracle dramas.

Most of the morality/miracle dramas seem to attempt the reverse formula of Risen. They show us heroes, other people, and story-worlds that already seem miraculous. Then they try to bring in the miracles. It ends up tasting like too much dessert before dinner.

But because we quietly do not believe when these stories tell us “earthly things,” we find it even harder to believe when these stories try to tell us “heavenly things.”

Risen also works better than contemporary morality/miracle stories because it’s set in a world entirely unlike our own. A biblical fiction, tinged with “miraculous realism,” lets us forget about our own realities or projections of ideal reality (in which we are all middle-class American families just a prayer or spiritual program away from plot resolution).

Instead of thinking about the movie’s effect on non-Christian people or ourselves¹, the story asks us to look at Clavius. He is a living, thinking person (portrayed by Joseph Fiennes). He has hopes and struggles and sins as we do. But as we explore his story, we’re not thinking about us. At first we’re not even thinking about the fact that This Is a Bible Story, So It Had Best Get it Right. We are thinking about Clavius, stepping outside ourselves, engaging his journey.

Great stories whose people and worlds help us forget ourselves also help teach us humility. But no one learns humility by watching moving pictures that are like himself.

Risen sticks to the Bible; do some Christians prefer otherwise?

No Christian critics I read faulted Risen for inserting fictitious characters Clavius (Joseph Fiennes) and Lucius (Tom Felton) into the story. So we are getting better!

Some biblical Christians have faulted Risen for unbiblical reasons:

• The story portrays the apostles as fearful, uncertain, and even naïve;
• The story does not present the complete gospel of repentance and faith in Jesus;
• The story does not explore full doctrinal implications of Jesus’s death and resurrection.²

Each of these objections is based on a few flawed assumptions:

1. That the movie was meant to tell the whole Gospel story, rather than Clavius’s story;
2. That the movie should have shown spiritually mature apostles, rather than portrayals that are surely closer to their actual state at the time (immature, naïve, reckless);
3. That the movie should have gone beyond the actual resurrection account, rather than sticking close to the narrative that itself does not explain the whys of Jesus’ resurrection.

Many of these objections can be answered by exploring the highest purpose of stories. We should not expect stories first to evangelize, entertain, or morally edify us. Instead a story should first move us to glorify God. Thus, after we see a movie, what should we first want to do? I suggest we ought not first want to do anything, if by “do” we mean a moral action. Instead we ought first to be moved to thank God for this good gift through human culture.

That’s how I felt after I saw Risen, and that’s why I highly recommend you see this quiet little biblical fiction drama very soon.

To steal the evangelical movie “support zombie” rhetoric, if you pay to see this film, and truly enjoy it, then we will more likely get movies like this. And that way the genre(s) of Christian movies—which must start somewhere, so I’m not knocking them all—will be more likely able to mature.

I have a new theory about what’s wrong with modern art. It came to me suddenly, like a flash of insight or a completely random thought. But first, a little background.

Art traditionalists – defined as “people who prefer their art to be recognizable” – have accused modern art of not being true art. This is not always accurate. Sometimes modern art is, quite literally, nothing at all.

A few years ago, the Independent reported on an “invisible exhibition” opened by a

Gianni Motti’s Magic Ink, 1989

London gallery. This gallery consisted of, among other things, a so-called invisible statue of Andy Warhol (actually, a visible but empty plinth Andy Warhol once stepped on); a blank piece of paper at which the artist had stared – “repeatedly over five years,” we are told, though to be realistic, it makes no difference; an “empty space” cursed by a witch; and drawings in invisible ink.

Now, I think I have common sense and all normal people on my side when I say that there is something wrong with this “invisible art”. It frankly seems like a racket, charging money for non-existent statues and blank canvases. I suppose it’s possible the creators are really charlatans who have realized, like the spurious tailors of “The Emperor’s New Clothes”, that people will pay you for nothing if you can only convince them that they are unbearably stupid if they don’t see the Art.

But let’s dismiss that notion, for the sake of charity and even of argument. Let’s assume that the creators genuinely intended art and came up with art that has, as a matter of objective, physical reality, no actual existence. How does an artist end up there, and why – as a school of art – does modern art accept and enable it?

And this is where we return to my theory. I’ve come to wonder if modern art lost its way by pursuing originality.

I’ve long thought that originality is overrated in art, including movies and the written word. This comes partially from my conviction that there is, indeed, nothing new under the sun, that everything that matters is old and everything else is just detail. “It’s been done before,” some people complain. Of course it’s been done before. Everything has been! The question is – how was it done?

Just as vitally, and not wholly unrelated, I do not regard originality as the true aim of art. The true aim of art is universality. It is to capture and to give voice to lasting truths and utterly human things. When art is great, it expresses something we can all feel, or conveys something we can all understand. It lives in the old things, and makes the old things live to us again.

The pursuit of originality can mislead artists because it too easily obscures better pursuits. Some art, whether consciously or not, sacrifices universality for originality. Other artists, and not just in the visual arts, forget that people are as much their business as art. More, perhaps. Art that is not enjoyable, or even comprehensible, to people outside a carefully-taught clique fails.

All of this is not to devalue originality but to keep it in its proper place. Originality is like style in that it is something worth having but not usually worth bothering about. The work of a writer is to have something worth saying and then say it as well as he can; do that, and style will come. The work of an artist is to take hold of something timeless, something universal, and give it the best expression possible; originality, too, will come.

And unlike the sort of originality that consists of invisible statues and blank pieces of paper, it won’t come alone.

Hobbits make for terrible hero material.

At least to the critical, externally-focused eye. They’re small in stature, physically inferior, known for gardening, consuming mass quantities of ale, and living a simplistic lifestyle.

Not warriors hardened by battle and filled with experience like Aragorn and Boromir.

Not exceedingly wise like the elves or possessing powers like Gandalf and Saruman.

By any reasonable standards, they’re the last choice on the list of who you would send on a quest to save the world. A quest that includes months of travel, attacks from the enemy’s powerful minions, and a hundred other potential disasters.

Hobbits aren’t alone in this. Fantasy novels are fond of their wide-eyed, innocent heroes. “Who seems the least qualified for this quest? We’ll take him.”

The level-headed ones of the bunch (looking at you, Boromir) naturally question this decision. Isn’t it madness to send a weak hobbit into the burning lands of Mordor when even the Gondorian army, most powerful force of the free lands, cannot enter? On the surface level, his skepticism seems justifiable.

To make a sports analogy, would a football team with a chance to win the game on the final play hand the ball to the scrawny backup running back? “That’s crazy,” we’d say. “It doesn’t make sense.”

Given that obvious conclusion, why are stories, particularly fantasy, so keen on planting a weak, seemingly ineffective hero in the spotlight. Why make demands which are certain to bring the poor character to miserable failure?

I think there are several factors at play.

1. Vicarious Experience

Stories are told by people. Authors are human (shocking, I know). 😉 They understand the experience of being human. The joys, hopes, dreams, failures, pains, and sorrows. Feelings and emotions they can instill in their characters and bring them to life in a real, relatable way.

Most of us are normal folk. We’re the hobbits in the story of life, not the Aragorns and Gandalfs. We connect to the hobbits and unassuming fantasy heroes because when we look in the mirror, we see their reflections. Through the magic of storytelling, we slip into their skin, so to speak, and internalize their experiences.

Living vicariously through their stories, we become Frodo struggling up Mount Doom, helped along by faithful Sam. We battle the White Witch as Peter did. We sympathize with Harry when the Dursleys treat him like unwanted dirt.

The reason weak heroes are so popular is because we transpose our desires and dreams into the stories we tell. Filled with grandiose dreams of saving the day, our city, or the person we love, we take part in the heroics of characters whose stories, for a time, make those dreams a reality.

2. Underdog Stories

Who doesn’t love an underdog story? Something about them grips our attention. We can’t ignore a good underdog story, whether in real life or in fiction. Not only do they give us someone to root for, they inspire, challenge, and encourage us.

In fiction, when see the fantasy hero overcome a huge obstacle thrown at him by the villain, we begin to think perhaps a trial we’re facing in life isn’t impossible to defeat.

When the acts of two lone hobbits bring a powerful empire crashing down in utter destruction, we consider the evil empires looming in our lives and glimpse the hope that all is not lost.

When a weak character willingly faces danger, putting his life on the line for a greater cause, it makes us pause. The character’s actions offer a challenge to us. Will we sit idly by, content in our comfort, or be willing to embark upon a quest into the dangerous unknown?

If Frodo can go on a fool’s errand into what appears to be the jaws of death, who are we to complain when difficulty crosses our path?

3. Echoes of Truth

This one isn’t as obvious on the surface, yet amazingly potent. The best stories reflect, in their own imperfect way, the great myth that came true, as Tolkien pointed out to Lewis. That myth, of course, is the story of Christ, who by the world’s standards was anything but a hero.

A carpenter from a people-group who were as far from being dominant world powers as the Doctor is of loving his ancient enemies the Daleks.

In the archetype of the weak hero, we hear faint echoes of the truth woven into history. God doesn’t work in expected ways, and often accomplishes the great things through the most humble, unassuming people.

Michael Card’s song, God’s Own Fool, describes this beautifully, especially the line in the chorus that reads “when we in our weakness believed we were strong, He became helpless to show we were wrong.”

By way of rough analogy, our human mode of thinking is akin to Boromir’s view of the world. Military might, physical strength, numbers—those are what win the day and offer the greatest hope. Meanwhile, God’s way of doing things is similar to how Gandalf operates. It runs contrary to rationale, but only on the surface.

Boromir judged by the external—wisdom, strength, political power, wealth. Gandalf, however, saw deeper into the truth of the matter. True strength lies not in how many orcs you can slay in five minutes. The mark of true strength is what lies within.

Courage. Determination. Selflessness. Trust. Loyalty.

At the end of the day, the tale of hobbits and heroes is one of strength in weakness. Sure, plenty of heroes happen to possess amazing powers, but that’s not what makes them heroic. And ultimately, they point to the story of Christ, the true hero who showed strength in weakness.

The Story. Archer Keaton is an apparently normal though conscientious student by day. By night he is a dreamtreader, one of three tasked to patrol the world of Dream, standing in opposition to the Nightmare Lord.

When a new boy comes to school in the last month of the school year, everything in Archer’s daily life changes. His best friend, Kara Windchil, seems smitten by Rigby Thames, but so do most of the rest of the students. Still, it smarts that Kara no longer sits with Archer on the bus or talks with him or texts him.

Things in Dream are not so great either. An increasing number of tears in the fabric separating Dream from the Temporal—the real, though temporal world, as opposed to the real, though eternal world of the hearafter—have begun to appear. What’s more, the other two dreamtreaders are missing.

And off the story goes.

Strengths. There’s much to like in Dream Treaders. For one, Wayne Batson has a wonderful ability to portray young teens truthfully and accurately. He does not treat his teens in a condescending way or write as an adult who is living through his characters or, with one exception, create teens based on how an adult expects teens to act. Rather, they seem to come alive and each is a unique individual. The quirks and foibles of one are completely different from those of the other characters.

The premise of this story is also fresh and interesting. Yes, as noted in an earlier post, there are dream stories or stories centered on the fight to control the mind, but this one takes a different approach and gives it some really strong elements—people capable of lucid dreaming, with the ability to think into being whatever they need, but also with rules they must follow if they are to avoid dire consequences.

The plot of this story is not particularly new, but it is well executed. It’s apparent from the beginning what Archer wants, and it’s easy to pull for him, to hope he succeeds, to worry when he makes a bad decision. The pace is fast but not dizzily so.

The theme is expertly woven throughout the story, not in a subtle way exactly, but naturally so that the important truths arise from the characters and not as an aside the authors tells the reader. And the truths are important. In yesterday’s post I dealt with the concept of an anchor—a thing that ties a lucid dreamer to reality. The point becomes clear that those in the real world also need anchors—solid, reliable constants to keep us from drifting away from truth. Coupled with the fight to overthrow the Nightmare Lord, there’s a lot of grist for the reader to digest.

Lastly, the worldbuilding in Dream Treaders is stellar—both that of Dream and of Dresden High. They seem like real places and are easy to visualize without having the action come to a stop while paragraphs of description paint the picture. Rather, Wayne Batson skillfully incorporates the details of setting with the events of the story.

Weaknesses. When I read the first chapter, I closed the book and realized I’d been entertained but didn’t really care. When I came back to the book and read chapter two, everything changed. The fact is, chapter one takes place in Dream and chapter to in the real world. Chapter one is immediate action; chapter two shows the main character in relationship with others. In short, once I got to know the character, I cared.

I don’t know if switching the order of the chapters would work or not. I do know, for me as a reader, getting to know the character was like throwing a switch from not engaged to engaged and caring.

There was one character, though, I think Wayne Batson missed—Archer’s brother Buster who supposedly was in love with all things Best Coast (though I think he called it West Coast 😉 or maybe even California). The problem was, he used slang that was fashionable in the 1980s or ’90s at best. I (living on the West Coast) haven’t heard a lot of those slang terms he used for a generation. His character, in other words, seemed forced and artificial—an adult’s idea, gleaned from old TV shows, most likely, of what a kid in California must be like. Fortunately, Buster had a very small role, and most people not living on the West Coast may not even notice the weirdness of his portrayal.

Recommendation. I think Dream Treaders is a triple (with nobody out), if not a home run. It’s a great book for middle grade boys, a reading group that is highly under served, in my opinion. I applaud Wayne Batson for such a wonderful story (and Thomas Nelson for publishing it). I think this one is a MUST READ for the target audience. I think readers of all kinds will enjoy it.

This post first appeared at A Christian Worldview of Fiction in June 2014.

Book 1 of The Songkeeper Chronicles
By Gillian Bronte Adams

Introduction

Who Will Keep the Song Alive?

Every generation has a Songkeeper—one chosen to keep the memory of the Song alive. And in every generation, there are those who seek to destroy the chosen one.

When Birdie’s song draws the attention of a dangerous Khelari soldier, she is kidnapped and thrust into a world of ancient secrets and betrayals. Rescued by her old friend, traveling peddler Amos McElhenny, Birdie flees the clutches of her enemies in pursuit of the truth behind the Song’s power.

Ky is a street-wise thief and a member of the Underground—a group of orphans banded together to survive . . . and to fight the Khelari. Haunted by a tragic raid, Ky joins Birdie and Amos in hopes of a new life beyond the reach of the soldiers. But the enemy is closing in, and when Amos’ shadowed past threatens to undo them all, Birdie is forced to face the destiny that awaits her as the Songkeeper of Leira.

Prologue

They were coming.

Gundhrold peered into the moonless dark, feathered wings ruffling in the breeze. Distant howls sounded to the beat of thundering hooves and clinking armor. Distant, but rapidly approaching.

Foul murderers. His claws dug into the bark of the limb and dark sap bubbled out of the scratches. A fresh scent hovered around him, strange amidst the eerie screams borne upon the wind, and he studied the russet sap staining his claws like blood.

The limb groaned as he shifted his weight and clacked his beak impatiently, straining to pierce the heaviness of the woods with his gaze. Where was she?

A twig snapped in the depths of the forest. A branch rustled. He tensed, raising his wings for flight. Soft footsteps on damp leaves, a shuddering breath, then a whispered voice spoke from the shadows. “Gundhrold? Are you here?”

At last.

Dropping from the tree, Gundhrold spread his wings and glided to the forest floor. He landed without a noise, catlike on all four paws, before a woman hooded and cloaked. “Lady Auna, you are late.”

The woman started, then breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, it’s you.”

“Did you expect another, Songkeeper?”

“Do not call me that. Not when they are so close.” She pushed her hood back with a trembling hand, revealing eyes that sparked with urgency beneath a flood of gray hair. “here is no time. They have come for me.”

A wild undulating cry tore through the woods, nearer than before.

“Then I must see you safe from here.” He stood and stretched, wincing at the tremor that ran from his shoulders to his wing tips. “It has been long since I have carried a grown human in sustained flight. Nonetheless, we will manage. There is a clearing west of here where we can be off—the upper canopy is too dense here to permit flight.”

Auna shook her head. “No, friend, I am too old to flee. That is not why I summoned you.”

“My lady?”

“Memory must not perish tonight, Gundhrold.” She shrugged aside her dak gray cloak, revealing a bundle cradled in her arms. “We must not fail.”

Gundhrold peered at the bundle. “Is this . . .”

“It is,” Auna said, relinquishing the bundle to him. “This is your task, entrusted to your care and protection.”

The bundle seemed to grow heavier as the weight of his responsibility settled upon him. “I will not fail, Songkeeper.”

A soft, sad smile spread across Auna’s face, smoothing the wrinkles crisscrossing her forehead. “The land of Leira owes a debt to you Protectors that she can never repay. And now, friend, you must—” She stiffened suddenly, listening.

An otherworldly howl shook the ground, and the harsh scream of a raven split the night air. Flickering orange lights appeared in the forest, bobbing toward them, cracking twigs and splintering branches keeping time with the quickening tramp of feet and hooves. Auna spu around, gripping the edges of her cloak to her neck so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

“They have come.” Gundhrold clasped the bundle to his chest. Loosing his wings, he coiled to spring into the air, but his gaze strayed to Auna and he hesitated.

“Why do you delay?” she cried. “Go, before it is too late!” Clutching her cloak, she darted off through the trees, a glimmer of gray in the night.

Gundhrold launched from the ground and landed three-legged on the branch he had occupied minutes before. His fourth paw hugged the bundle, softening the jolt of his landing. Below, dozens of hounds raced up and skidded to a stop, snuffling and tearing at the loam where he and Auna had been standing. A howl of triumph burst from their throats, and they dashed away into the woods, following the path Auna had taken.

All but one. A massive beast lunged at the base of his tree, claws scrabbling at the bark, howl echoing through the woods. Even from a distance, he could smell the hound’s rancid breath—like a battlefield, it reeked of death.

Though the hound could not reach him in the tree, it would be followed by the Khelari—soldiers with weapons, with axes, bows, and fire.

He scrambled along the branch, running awkwardly on three legs. The hound followed, its cries joined by the shouts of men drawn to the pursuit. At the end of the branch, Gundhrold dove, glided to the next, and ran again and again, ever westward, toward the clearing and flight. He missed the craggy mountains and desert plains of his youth, where there were no trees to obscure flight and no Khelari to necessitate it.

The clearing came into sight just ahead, and he raced toward it, wings unfurled, heedless of the grasping branches on either side. A bough snagged his right wing, and he tore it free, releasing a cloud of feathers, and leapt into the air.

For a moment, he hung suspended over the clearing. The hound burst from the trees below with a mass of armed men hard upon its heels, shouting and brandishing weapons. Torches blazed in their hands, lighting the clearing with an orange glow . . .

Wings beating, Gundhrold soared up out of the clearing and banked to the left. Something thrummed past his ear and vanished into the starless sky. An arrow. Another twang sounded and pain exploded in his right shoulder. His wing fell limp. A black feathered shaft stuck in his side, the steel point grating excruciatingly against bone. Gundhrold grasped vainly at the air and then dropped like a stone into the clearing.

He hit the ground with a dizzying thud and immediately teeth sank into his neck. He lashed out with his claws and the hound yelped. It retreated across the clearing and stood staring at him, head hanging, bloody slobber dripping from its tongue.

Gundhrold flexed his wings and growled at the pain. Still clutching the bundle to his chest, he inched to his feet and slowly turned around. Black figures surrounded him, weapons aimed at his heart. Above, ravens swarmed to the tree tops, feathers glinting midnight blue in the torchlight, croaking calls rasping from their throats. And in the woods, chanting throbbed like the pulse of the ocean, drawing nearer like the incoming tide.

A mounted man broke through the circle of Khelari and dismounted, dropping his reins on the ground. Gundhrold’s gaze darted to the slim bow in the man’s hands and the black feathered arrow already on the string. His claws dug into the loam. Wounded as he was, he could not hope to dodge an arrow on the ground.

But the archer did not shoot. He lowered the bow and let the arrow slip from the string, then waved a dismissive hand at the Khelari. “We will let the Takhran deal with him.”

The chanting grew louder and deeper, blending with the baying of the hounds. A dozen men marched out of the woods, followed by a pack of the beasts. They halted in front of the archer and shoved a gray-clad figure out of their midst. The figure stumbled to its knees in the middle of the clearing, head bowed, hands bound behind its back.

“Auna,” Gundhrold whispered.