My fellow Travis (Chapman) is going through some personal difficulties at the moment, and I am too. So for this week I’m taking a break from our Speculative Fiction Writer’s Guide to War series to talk about a movie I watched yesterday–First Man. I think this movie shows an example of the type of fearlessness seen in warriors that T-2 wrote up in last week’s article on the nature of warfare.

First Man, for those who may not be familiar with it, is a highly realistic movie about the astronaut Neil Armstrong and the first landing on the moon. As such, while the movie is mostly straight-out confirmed biography. It strays into historical fiction at moments because nobody remembers some of the conversations it records and it also shows at least two events that for certain did not happen at all or not the way the movie portrayed them (I did a bit of after-viewing research). Which includes a moment the film gives great emotional importance on the surface of the moon (if you’ve seen the movie, I’m sure you’ll be able to guess what moment I’m referring to).

It’s not really a speculative film at all in the ordinary sense of the word, but I hope you will excuse me posting about it here. First of all, it contains moments of danger and drama, life or death issues for Armstrong–all of which actually happened, but which still are cut from the same cloth as drama you’d find in a speculative fiction plot. Second, it shows the best Hollywood portrayal of what landing on the moon was like–it really feels like the viewer is along for the ride. And the moon looks amazing in First Man–a totally alien surface, a place unlike anything anywhere on Earth. Which really stirred my longing for other worlds and places, a longing most often expressed in speculative fiction.

I’ve also got a third reason for writing about this movie, one I already revealed in my first paragraph. I think the movie shows a character portrait of the kind of fearlessness seen in warrior elites. That which characterizes a person who winds up being a hero in war–or in the case of Armstrong, in space. (I’m not mainly writing a movie review, but I’d give this film 4 out of 5 stars. FYI.)

Note though that this movie is very much focused on Armstrong personally. Not only the dangers he faced in the air and in space, but wife, his marriage, his children, and his friends. The camera angles are often close–you see a lot of Ryan Gosling’s face in this movie (and of other key actors). The film is not about NASA as a whole, even though many astronauts are portrayed. It makes only minimal efforts to explain what the space race was for or what was technically going on at any particular moment of the film. It instead provides a visceral insight into what it feels like to be physically jostled around, to hear the groans of aircraft wings, to have the sound escape the lunar module as the air flowed out. (By the way, by focusing on the visceral in Armstrong’s life, it feels totally natural for the film to focus on Armstrong stepping on the moon and to skip Buzz Aldrin planting the US flag later on.)

Gosling showing Armstrong boarding Apollo 11.

Armstrong himself probably only partially operated on the level of the visceral. He intellectually understood what was going on in a way the movie viewer would not and it seems his brain was highly engaged in solving his problems, not focused on what being there physically felt like. Though the movie actually portrays that, too, Armstrong in problem-solving mode, especially during his mission in Gemini 8, in which he saved his own life and his copilot’s life by cool thinking during a dangerous spin that he alone solved, without any guidance from Houston or anyone else.

The movie stuck to reality in portraying Neil Armstrong as stoic and cool-headed, the type of person who could make the right decision even under pressure and who had very little to say. I actually suspect that Gosling’s Armstrong is even more emotional than Armstrong actually was, yet there is no way to watch this film without seeing a portrait of a man who kept his emotions under control, who lived in his mind and intellect more than in his heart or emotions.

We could chalk up Armstrong’s fearlessness to his background and training (he actually was trained at the US Naval Academy and was a fighter pilot in the Korean War), but I felt when I watched the movie it was showing us something else. It portrayed the life of someone who would be a member of what I called “the Fearless Elite”–people who are wired differently than the majority of humans. People who are capable of feeling fear, but who are unaffected by it.

The movie also shows Armstrong not really being able to connect with his wife, with struggling to talk with his sons at a key moment. In other words, as someone who not only benefited from his emotional control, but who suffered the downside from emotional distance as well.

My fellow authors, that’s a realistic portrayal. Even if First Man overemphasized Armstrong’s lack of ability to connect emotionally (which I suspect it did), I think it was essentially correct in showing there is actually a downside to even the heroic kind of fearlessness. That is, a lack of ability to fully engage with others from the heart.

Last week, Becky Miller discussed the tendency of modern SF to stereotype women as aggressive protagonists who do what men do, only in heels. Her well-made points turned my thoughts to the treatment of women in speculative fiction. The portrayal of women has varied greatly from era to era and from author to author. It even varies from science fiction to fantasy; fantasy – built up from tales crowned with queens, fairies, and witches – possesses deeper traditions of vital female characters. Yet taking a broad view of speculative fiction, and especially of science fiction, we may discern the march of female stereotypes.

The reigning stereotype of early sci-fi was the young lady, invariably attractive, who was the love interest of the young hero, or the daughter of the old professor, or – this was not rare – both. Often, this young woman played Watson to the men’s Sherlock, asking what the audience doesn’t know. Thus the woman provided a method to resolve the eternal writer’s problem of the info-dump, and an infinitely more graceful one than having the hero and the professor tell each other what both already know. More significantly, the young woman is usually the story’s heart – the hero’s inspiration and the center of his emotion. Often enough, she is the damsel in distress, awaiting rescue. In short, early sci-fi stereotypes fit women into classic ideals of femininity, though it must be noted that this did not wholly sideline women from the action. It was not unusual for the hero’s love interest to accompany him into peril, nor unknown for her to use a weapon when the crisis demanded it.

Another, less genteel stereotype is typified by the women of the original Star Trek – the Federation servicewomen in miniskirts and the endless parade of female aliens who probably were not warm under those lights. Unlike the vaguely Victorian women of earlier sci-fi, those women were allowed to enter the story in their own right, not needing a personal relationship with a male character for admission. At the same time, their presentation – sexualized in the very teeth of common sense – objectified them in a way that the idealized women of a more old-fashioned tradition were not. This stereotype was probably most prominent between the fading of the old ideals and the dominance of the new, but it existed before then and is not extinct now.

The stereotype now ascendant is that of the action heroine, whose prowess defies old notions of feminine weakness and, at times, the laws of nature. Princess Leia is the embodiment of the new SF heroine: assertive, authoritative, confident in the use of weapons and in everything else, sarcastic and sharp-tongued to the point of being obnoxious. (If anyone disagrees with this last statement, let me just say: Get this walking carpet out of my way.) We want a heroine who can scrap with the biggest, toughest of men, and due to standards of female beauty strictly enforced in Hollywood, we are accustomed to heroines who do this while weighing just north of 100 pounds.

But despite this and other absurdities, there is nothing inherently wrong with the confident, sarcastic woman who knows how to make use of an arsenal. For that matter, there was nothing wrong with the sweetheart or daughter who is the hero’s heart. (The female military officer in a miniskirt we can do without.) The real error of this march of stereotypes is not that speculative fiction features a certain kind of woman, but that it neglects other kinds.

Once upon a time, it seemed many evangelical Christian parents warned against fairy tales. “These fairy tales are full of witchcraft,” these parents said. “They’ve got negative beauty expectations for girls, plus scary images, like creepy faces.”

Some parents restricted their children’s access to, say, Disney VHS tapes, or any media not specifically labeled as “Christian” or “family friendly.” Some went further (and perhaps more consistently) and chose to forego television, movies, or other digital media altogether. And all seemed well—until the children got older.

Time passed. Many older Christians grew in wisdom. They began to see fairy tales not as intrinsically wicked, but as imaginative creations of humans, for ill or good.

But “all this has happened before, and it will all happen again.” From the BBC:

Keira Knightley says she has banned her three-year-old daughter from watching Disney films whose portrayal of women she disagrees with.

Edie Knightley Righton is not allowed to watch Cinderella or Little Mermaid.

Knightley told Ellen DeGeneres that 1950’s Cinderella “waits around for a rich guy to rescue her. Don’t! Rescue yourself. Obviously!”

She said of Little Mermaid: “I mean, the songs are great, but do not give your voice up for a man. Hello!”

The actress added: “And this is the one that I’m quite annoyed about because I really like the film. I love The Little Mermaid! That one’s a little tricky – but I’m keeping to it.”¹

Meanwhile, real-life Disney princess voice, Kristen Bell (Anna from Frozen) takes a similar tack. But at least Bell says she talks with her children about fairy-tale films:

“Every time we close Snow White I look at my girls and ask, ‘Don’t you think it’s weird that Snow White didn’t ask the old witch why she needed to eat the apple? Or where she got that apple?’ I say, ‘I would never take food from a stranger, would you?’ And my kids are like, ‘No!’ And I’m like, ‘Okay, I’m doing something right.'”²

If at this point you’re thinking anything like, “These actors should just shut up and sing,” hold your boos and hisses (and not just because this response risks de-humanizing bearers of God’s image just because of their career field).

It’s not just celebrities who say these sorts of things.

I recall when nonsense like this spread all over the place in response to the last Cinderella film (2015, directed by Kenneth Branagh).³

One reviewer said she wanted the film “to be big enough to marry my childhood dreams with my adult belief that women aren’t ennobled by suffering or diminished by ambition.”⁴ Although she praised the film’s good intentions and lavishness, she found Cinderella herself weak and “more submissive than Anastasia Steele.”⁵

Meanwhile, a psychotherapist warned that Cinderella—and fairy tales like it—is dangerous for daughters:

“Depicting a female who appears utterly helpless until a male swoops in and rescues her from all of her troubles sends a troubling message,” [psychotherapist and author Amy Morin] tells Yahoo Parenting. “Girls may learn, ‘I can’t solve my problems, but a boy could.’ It’s much healthier for girls to recognize their own problem-solving skills, rather than look to boys as the solution.”⁶

A professor dismissed the supposed “harm” but also significance of fairy stories:

“It’s a misguided notion that these stories are going to have lasting significance to a child. … Cinderella doesn’t do any harm. It’s just a charming story. Kids enjoy fairy tales and these stories fulfill fantasies.”⁷

Well, this is all just a bunch of wacky socialist progressivists who, based on their need for political correctness and “safe spaces,” can’t enjoy harmless entertainment, right? Not quite. This chap, over at conservative website The Federalist, unfortunately responded in kind:

“Tangled” retells the story of Rapunzel so that it fits the moral criteria of people like Knightley and other progressive mothers who recoil from the original story of a girl locked up in a tower only to be saved by a man. What results is a predictable tale of a young woman learning to be her own savior, not fall for man-children, and not trust her mother.⁸

After this “astute” recounting of the film’s plot, the author raids a random grab bag of weak film-criticism clichés (Tangled is “forgettable … recycled … mishmash”), but that’s beside the point. This writer hasn’t even accurately described Tangled, which wholly embraces the man-rescues-princess trope, fleshing out dashing rescuer Eugene “Flynn Rider” Fitzherbert and charming artist Rapunzel. It’s simply terrible observation at best, or deception at worst, to claim the film endorses any “young woman learning to be her own savior” shenanigans. Similarly, this bit about Frozen:

Everyone loves Elsa, the princess who is blessed and cursed with the power to freeze things, even though she is the actual villain in the story. She freezes the kingdom and puts many lives at risk because the people are (rightly) scared of her. The movie’s catchy anthem “Let It Go” is not a happy song; it’s all about her celebrating her newfound freedom from her family and caring for others.

The movie strongly suggests it’s okay to harm others if you’re a woman who has suffered.⁹

Simply put: no, it does not. Frozen ends with Anna’s act of perfect-love self-sacrifice, which thaws her sister’s frozen heart and ultimately redeems a kingdom from Elsa’s pain of separation and resulting vengeance. Anyone who doesn’t see this finale has literally quit watching the movie partway through, or is simply prevaricating.

Unfortunately, I’ve seen plenty of similar “critiques” from conservative-type viewers, who think that any lazy criticism of movies is basically deserved because “well, they have agendas.” Of course these films have agendas. In fact, they’re made by hundreds and thousands of people, each of whom has a separate agenda, and collective agendas honed by creative and capitalist impulse. None of that is any excuse for plain incorrectness, in the name of decrying “political correctness.”

Nor does this excuse the types of fear-based approach advocated (often with good intentions) by parents or critics who quite simply refuse to enjoy fairy tales as they should be enjoyed. Such critics may not recognize the truth that humans must have “a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance” (Ecclesiastes 3:4). Well-made fairy tales include glimpses of both these pairings. Yet the genre also requires two rules of the dance: magic for the sake of joy and not just “usefulness,” and simple yet realistic evil that is defeated for a happy finale.

This critical ignorance of fairy tales’ purpose get even worse when they’re married to zeal for contemporary social movements or just plain trends. Critic or Celebrity X says something like “Snow White didn’t consent to that kiss,” and while she echoes a commonly acknowledged idea—such as “true romance is mutually consensual”—no one challenges it. We all assume that idea is morally valid because, well, most of us assume that most of us, or at least the important people whose opinions on morality really matter, all got together and believed it was valid. Like paper money.

Without an objective truth, however, there’s no real, lasting, eternal foundation behind a (true) idea like “true romance is mutually consensual.” You may feel very strongly that this is true. But without a Truth-giver, it’s just you and your feelings saying that, and/or joining with a majority (or an important minority) to say it.

That’s a terrible basis for critiquing or praising anything, even a fairy tale.

It’s also a terrible basis that can ultimately destroy the human creative impulse and capacity to remain humble beings who can see beauty and truth reflected in the creations of other humans (often from older ages), such as fairy tales. Without such vision for beauty, we’ll be forced toward terrible presumptions about reality—and we’ll assume (like some of these would-be critics seem to assume) that today’s temporal social battles, strategies, and trends are what matter most.

If that assumption were true, then yes, The Little Mermaid, Snow White, Cinderella and other fairy tales are at best harmless and at worst impractical, escapist nonsense. Why dance in fairy-land when we have Serious Work to be done?

But the biblical Christians sees the world differently.

Yes, we must train and practice for serious kingdom responsibilities. But for what eternal purpose? Biblical Christians do not believe the future of the universe is about unending servitude for important social/political causes. We believe in an future royal ball filled with pageantry, beauty, honor, and adventure.

I don’t know if Cinderella director Branagh also believes in this eschatology. But he does understand the truth that fairy tales shine with colors and play music that humans need.

We are affectionate for [fairy tales] because they appear not to be dressed up too much in morality. They are, but they have the virtue of appearing very simple—and some people might feel even simplistic—but they always catch us by surprise with their emotional power. … I felt that that invitation to be immersed in a vibrant, glamorous, highly colored world was really important as a sensory experience. A feast for the senses, but at the middle of it, people we can sort of see in the mirror. ¹⁰

If we believe in the goodness of color, dancing and feasting, let us beware being so “grown up” by demanding a fairy tale serve our shallow, temporal ends. Let us humble ourselves as children to receive with thanksgiving the beauties, truths, and magic of fairyland, seeking first to enjoy these stories—well-crafted ones, whenever they appear—for what they are meant to be: fantastical reflections of magic and delight. In truth, the very acts of rediscovering and enjoying these stories can help redeemed persons, courageous princesses and gallant princes, grow into God-honoring human beings who might even someday learn to dance.

In memory of C. S. Lewis and the upcoming 55th anniversary of his death on November 22, 1963, I am re-posting this article (and others) featuring an aspect of his writing.

Much misinformation abounds in regard to C. S. Lewis and his intentional inclusion of Christian allusions and themes in his fiction, particularly in The Chronicles of Narnia. For example, in an otherwise excellent article published at Breakpoint [and no longer available], Richard Doster wrote in “A Lost Art,” the following:

When Lewis wrote The Chronicles of Narnia, he had no theological agenda. There was no ulterior, evangelistic motive; he simply hoped to create likable stories. But the man’s worldview was as elemental to him as blood and bone. And his characters, plots, symbols, and themes are—unavoidably—products of it.

Actually this statement misrepresents Lewis’s position. Certainly, he stated clearly he was not intending to write an allegory when he penned The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. And Lewis thoroughly understood allegory. After all, his first work of fiction was Pilgrim’s Regress, an imitation in style of John Bunyan’s definitive allegory, Pilgrim’s Progress.

But between allegory and no intentional evangelistic motive lies considerable territory, and I believe Lewis made it clear, along with J. R. R. Tolkien, that he was aiming for neither extreme. From a Wikipedia article on mythopoeia:

Lewis’s mythopoeic intent is often confused with allegory, where the characters and world of Narnia would stand in direct equivalence with concepts and events from Christian theology and history, but Lewis repeatedly emphasized that an allegorical reading misses the point (the mythopoeia) of the Narnia stories.

The key here is that Lewis did write with intention, just not allegorical intention. Too many voices today in writing circles assume that his statements to debunk the idea that The Chronicles of Narnia were allegorical consequently mean he had no “ulterior evangelistic motive” or “theological agenda.” And therefore, no intentional purpose at all except to write “likable stories.”

Actually he intended to write a great deal more. He and Tolkien both claimed that fantasy could reveal Truth in a way that reality fiction could not.

So what was his intention?

According to Bill Smith, Director of the C. S. Lewis Institute, Lewis utilized what he termed “supposal.” From the C. S. Lewis article in Wikipedia:

His most famous works, the Chronicles of Narnia, contain many strong Christian messages and are often considered allegory. Lewis, an expert on the subject of allegory, maintained that the books were not allegory, and preferred to call the Christian aspects of them “suppositional”. As Lewis wrote in a letter to a Mrs. Hook in December 1958:

If Aslan represented the immaterial Deity in the same way in which Giant Despair [a character in The Pilgrim’s Progress] represents despair, he would be an allegorical figure. In reality however he is an invention giving an imaginary answer to the question, ‘What might Christ become like, if there really were a world like Narnia and He chose to be incarnate and die and rise again in that world as He actually has done in ours?’ This is not allegory at all. (Martindale & Root 1990)

The idea, then, was not to disguise Christianity, as some suggest. But neither did Lewis include Christian messages and allusions unintentionally on the way to writing an entertaining story. Rather, he simply asked, “Suppose …” Suppose God would come in incarnate form to this world, what would that look like, what would that mean?

My questions. Where are the stories today, written using supposal? And since the Chronicles of Narnia remain so popular sixty plus years after they first came out, shouldn’t we in the publishing industry want to find many more stories written with supposal intent? Because apparently, readers still want to read them.

Last week we discussed factors that influence a person’s ability to take another person’s life.

It’s hard. The closer you are and the more intimate the manner of killing, the harder it gets. We’ve discussed some of the psychological impacts that affect a person’s desire to engage in combat, those core fears that must be overcome to bring oneself into the arena, so to speak, to engage the enemy. Yet in speculative fiction across every genre we are exposed to characters who wade into battle without hesitation (or hesitation that is not fully developed), and perform the most miraculous of feats with nary a second thought. We love the fearless Aragorns and Legolas’, the intrepid space marines and underdog-turned-superhero who make up the large majority of our casts of characters.

Back to our Grossman reference of On Killing. The vast majority of people must overcome strong resistance to take a life in combat. Yet some people feel little fear of this kind of “up close and personal war.” Statistics derived from World War II, but consistent with records from other conflicts indicate that when human beings are locked in close personal combat for a period of around six weeks or more, between 96% and 98% of those fighting become psychological casualties. What it means to become a psychological casualty we’ll talk about in a later installment, but notice here that 2 to 4 percent do not suffer psychologically at all, or to a much lesser degree. This group, this unusual minority, we’ll call “The Fearless Elite.”

“Fearless” is not really the right term. This minority can experience fear (though not all do). But unlike the overwhelming majority of us, they can fight in sustained combat conditions without showing any sign of damage to their inner-selves. Note that since the fright or surrender reactions are involuntarily triggered by psychological stress, this small minority also seem resistant to throwing up hands in panic or uncontrollably running away. They may still feel fear and still surrender or run–but they would do so by choice it seems, because it makes sense at the moment, rather than because of an uncontrolled emotional and mental reaction.

Why is this small minority different? The answers are not completely known, but it seems the group can be divided in rough halves according to On Killing:

Half of this group are immune to the psychological damage of combat because there is something deeply wrong with them–they are psychopaths. Psychopaths, sometimes interchangeably called “sociopaths” (but there is a difference between the two terms), do not feel empathy for other human beings or only feel it in the tiniest amount. Killing someone else is nothing to them and they likewise are much less concerned with their own deaths.

The other half seems to be composed of people who are otherwise perfectly normal, who react differently to combat than most people for largely unknown reasons–though being naturally calm and highly resistant to getting stressed out seems to be related to what makes these people unusual.

Remember our opening: 2 to 4 percent of the total human population exhibits this behavior, and split that in half for each of the possible causes.

An author of tales should immediately recognize that a lot of war story writing has been focused on these unusual people. The villains, those who kill and feel nothing for any one–the heroes, who do feel, but are so calm and level-headed they manage to do the right thing even in the worst of scenarios. These are the men of legend and history, these are the Odysseus, the Achilles, the Spartacus, and Audie Murphy figures; the other half represents Genghis Khan, Ashurbanipal, and Joachim Peiper.

The Fearless Elite.

Conditioning and selection of the elite

It might be tempting to say that the 300 Spartans who stood with King Leonidas at Thermopylae were all naturally elite soldiers. But there is no suggestion based on scientific evidence that any nation of people will have a higher percentage of natural warriors than any other. In fact, the historical record seems to indicate that Spartan courage was not the product of natural affinity for warfare, but of superior “unnatural” training. In fact, elite training is the main ingredient in what makes certain individuals and military units superior to others. Training can condition any soldier, but is particularly useful in conditioning the already elite.

Though it is also true that joining an elite unit is voluntary, people of this “warrior elite” mentality (both halves) tend to seek to join elite military units. So, whether among King David’s mighty men or the U.S. Navy Seals, Army Rangers and Green Berets, or other elite units, the percentage of warriors more resistant to the psychological harm of combat is higher in elite units than in ordinary ones. This is partially why modern airborne units, in which every member has to face the fear of jumping out an airplane, tend to be considered elite. Or put another way, fear suppresses the effectiveness of a military unit in combat and so “elite” units who recruit from people who are the most fearless—who have passed through some form of ordeal proving their courage–fight more effectively and have a greater capacity/capability to conduct certain missions than “regular” units.

It might be interesting to write a story about a non-human race where all the soldiers naturally behave as if they were elite. Or where human beings are genetically engineered to fight without remorse or fear. Note that someone who fights without any regrets or fear would be lacking something psychologically–this lack should show somehow in a story. Even if the lack is missing the ability to enjoy ordinary events because of supreme natural calmness.

Soldiers in sci-fi

Travis C. here with some discussion and illustration from the literature. One of the first DVDs I bought was Kurt Russell’s 1998 movie Soldier, a science fiction story about a soldier produced by a program that takes orphans and conditions them to suppress those natural reactions and fears, creating an elite fighting unit. The program weeded out the other 96-98% quickly, leaving that Fearless Elite to fight for humanity. When exposed to a shipwrecked homesteader community, the main character must adapt to integrate into society. Fast forward that concept and you have the beginnings of M. Night Shyamalan’s After Earth.

Here we’re getting closer to the fantasy and sci-fi writers realm of the fantastical. The race of S’krells have an objective to conquer the new human homeworld of Nova Prime. Their weapon? Creatures known as Ursas who can sense fear in the human population. How do humans respond? The Ranger Corps, an elite unit of soldiers selected and conditioned to suppress their fear in order to combat the Ursas (a skill known as ghosting). It’s with that context we watch a pretty vanilla story about a father-son relationship.

Likely? Not particularly. Again, 2 to 4 percent of people have a capacity to operate in a combat environment without the natural resistance to combat actions we discussed earlier. Now let’s temper that with the research: that resistance to killing is directed towards humans. The Ursas seem pretty horrific, and there’s a clear sense of present danger driving the actions of the Ranger Corps (i.e., the extinction of the human race). Also as we said, it’s not that the Fearless Elite don’t feel fear, they are just capable of operating without significant limitations in those conditions. But we do see a common theme: conditioning of the soldier, possibly an already elite and rare soldier to begin with, to create one even more capable in battle.

Let’s finish with another example from the realm of science fiction: the Star Wars universe and the clone army. The early Imperial army is made up of cloned soldiers from Kamino based on the genetic template of bounty hunter Jango Fett. After an accelerated growth period these soldiers are put through a rigorous training program to condition them into the Stormtroopers we’re all familiar with. (And if you aren’t familiar, just drive around your neighbor and look for the Stormtrooper family stickers on every minivan and SUV. Or suffer through Star Wars Episode II: Attack of the Clones.)

We witness the results of this genetic modification, combined with regimented conditioning, through the franchise, and only in recent years are we seeing the storyline of the movies open up to the possibility of a Stormtrooper breaking out of that mold in the character Finn. Stormtroopers appear fearless against any foe, against any race or species of the galaxy, even against the droid army on Geonosis. Just pull the blaster trigger. Don’t think, don’t react. Don’t respond to fear.

The fantasy hero

In the realm of fantasy writing, I’d suggest we writers examine one of our longest-living tropes, the idea of the untrained, unconditioned coming-of-age-teenager (boy or girl), who is thrust into a new environment/out of their old environment, and through a journey with a guardian alongside finds it in themselves to develop this fearless attitude/condition and overcome astronomical odds against a nearly omnipotent foe. We’ve certainly seen the evolution of the Hero’s Journey since Joseph Campbell proposed his monomyth theory and not all stories are quite so blatantly conceived. Many try to do justice to the change element in the main character, showing us their growth from unaware/naive/broken/weak into strong/courageous/fearless/skilled, but if we’re being honest, that’s an exceptionally rare occurrence if the result is getting to that 2-4% Fearless Elite state.

Admittedly, we want to hear the story of the average, everyday pigboy who becomes a knight and later a king. I’m more like Shasta the fisherman’s boy than King Cor of Archenland, but I love the hope that C.S. Lewis creates to become a great man. The world needs great coming of age stories to help inspire and guide the next generation of real heroes in every sphere of influence. However, we have the power to deceive them with unrealistic expectations of the human capacity for fearlessness.

There are Aragorns in the world, but we’re more likely to see a stout-hearted Samwise if we honestly look around us. Let’s be honest with our readers as we develop characters that are real and exciting enough to capture and hold their attention but also true to the human condition. Training and conditioning can go a long way to improve the capacity of the 96 percent soldier, but it’s a rare few that exhibit the traits we find in that last 4 percent. How many of your cast are from that 4 percent?

I also want to leave you and I with some hope. That other 96 to 98 percent? Training and conditioning benefits them as well, and will result in a spectrum of positive responses to fear in combat. Some will always struggle with reactions we’d deem as cowardice, but many will stand up and perform brave and honorable acts while suffering varying degrees of psychological damage as a result. We’ll talk about that outcome later in the series.

Lastly, let’s always keep close in mind God’s command and promise to all of us: “Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go” (Joshua 1:9, NIV). That’s great encouragement from the God who created all 100 percent of us.

I recently finished the third season of The Man in the High Castle on Amazon Prime. It wasn’t as intense as the first two seasons but it was still very solid, and it presented many new questions and thankfully answered many as well. One thing that struck me about this season was the simmering sci-fi undercurrent that was almost inconsequential during the first two seasons but came to the forefront with this new season. Taken at face value, this show is a cut-and-dried alternate history where the Allies lose World War II, but being a Philip K. Dick tale, there is more than meets the eye, and things finally start moving in a high-tech direction in the last few episodes.

MAJOR SPOILERS AHEAD. DO NOT CONTINUE READING IF YOU HAVE NOT YET SEEN THE THIRD SEASON AND PLAN TO DO SO.

Image copyright Amazon Studios

At the end of season two, Trade Minister Tagomi teleports to a world that aligns with our own, in which the Allies won the war and the American dream is alive and well. He does this through mental power alone. The existence of parallel worlds explains the mysterious film reels, hoarded by the Man in the High Castle, all of which show different realities than the grim one the show’s characters inhabit. But what can the knowledge of these parallel worlds do in terms of helping our scrappy band of Resistance fighters stand up against the Nazis and the Japanese Empire? If someone told you that the greatest restaurant in the universe was on Neptune, that wouldn’t make a lick of difference in your own life since it would be impossible to get there. The only difference would be that now you are even less satisfied with your current restaurant choices because you know something better is out there, yet it is far out of reach. This was my thought throughout the first two seasons, as well as much of the third season. Okay, some people can pop in and out of different worlds but they can’t really do anything. It’s just like a vacation.

Enter the Nazi teleportation device at the end of season three. In true Nazi fashion, the Reichsführer decides that he not only wants to conquer this world; he wants to conquer parallel worlds as well. Deep in the mountains, Nazi scientists have been working on a device to one day transport armies to other dimensions and subject them to the might of the Reich. Of course, that’s easier said than done, and an unexpected wrench is thrown in their plans, but the Master Race isn’t so easily thwarted. Things are set up for what should be a very entertaining fourth season, one with a lot more sci-fi wizardry.

All of this got me thinking: what if parallel worlds do exist? From what I understand of quantum physics, the existence of parallel worlds is essentially a foregone conclusion. Does that mean there is a world out there where Adam didn’t sin? Where Jesus didn’t actually walk the Earth? Where Mark Carver is the billionaire founder of social media giant Markbook?

It’s fun to think about, and it’s certainly within the realm of God’s power to preside over infinite worlds, but in the end, it doesn’t matter. This reality is the only one I will ever know, and in this reality, I am a sinner saved by grace. Questioning the very fabric of reality unravels the sweater into nothingness, and questioning something doesn’t change its state of being. Someone says, “What if we’re all just plugged into the Matrix? What if we’re just one possible variation of infinite possibilities?” etc. etc. Well, what if this actually is reality and it’s the only one? And since that’s the more likely conclusion, let’s just go with that. Even if I did somehow find out that there were other versions of me in other versions of the universe, it wouldn’t affect my life here nor God’s sovereignty over all creation, because all of those other universes would still be created by Him.

If there are other Marks out there living countless lives, I only hope that they know God’s love, because He is the one constant in all possible worlds.

This week, (name of male celebrity) was accused of (insert one: sexual harassment, abuse of power, assault, and/or all the above).

People have reached their limit and seem to have collectively decided to hold such celebrities to account. For Christians, that also means responding to abuse accusations in our contexts, such as Christian conferences.

Still, I’m grateful to see other voices speaking out to remind us of this: We still have many celebrities, Christians, and men in general, who stand apart from this behavior. Many of them actively condemn such abuse, and show by their example a grace-blessed humanity that rebukes harassment and abuse of power.

Fantasy fans also find many positive examples of male characters in fiction. They are gallant, gracious, humble, protective. They struggle to act virtuously. They use their gifts (including the gift of power) in righteous ways.

I’ve asked five female friends to describe a favorite male character from fantastic fiction. Here they are.

Laura VanArendonk Baugh, author, The Songweaver’s Vow

I don’t have a favorite hero, because I can’t commit to a favorite anything. But I think Sir Percy Blakeney is often overlooked.

He’s a remarkable hero in many ways, though the story by now has been remade and parodied so often it’s easy to miss its original significance. (The Scarlet Pimpernel was the first hero with a secret identity. Batman, Superman, and Zorro all owe their origin to Sir Percy.) This is a man who deliberately destroys his own reputation, allowing all the world to perceive him as a useless fop who cannot think of anything more significant than fashion and socializing, tricking even his own wife into believing him shallow and meaningless. Meanwhile, he is spending his fortune and risking his life to save lives during the Reign of Terror.

Tricking his wife, you say? Doesn’t sound much like a hero. But understand that Sir Percy believes his wife Marguerite an accomplice to murder, turning in a French aristocrat for execution. He cannot risk his secret with her. Yet even while he distrusts her, Sir Percy respects her, keeping the vows he made though it would be easy to find other company in the libertine society of the late 18th century. The first novel is the story of their restitution. By the standards of the day, he places in Marguerite an astonishing amount of trust and authority, eventually taking her undercover with him and giving her command of his assisting League.

I don’t know that I would have the strength to make everyone despise me, so I find Sir Percy’s resolve and dedication impressive and inspiring.¹

Marian Jacobs, author, Drawn from the Water; writer, Lorehaven Magazine

When The Legend of Tarzan released in 2016, I drooled in the theater and babbled all the way home like the nerd I was.

In my opinion, that film is the best Tarzan so far. Partly because it was epic like a good superhero film, and partly because John Clayton/Tarzan was at the height of virtue—not to mention the man knows how to admit when he’s wrong.

One of the greatest accomplishments in this adaptation is an intensely romantic story about a married couple. In a society where marriage isn’t considered sexy or romantic, Tarzan aims to balance a great respect for the strength of his wife while still being passionately protective. What could be more virtuous or romantic?

Bethany Jennings, author, Dreamskip

As an author, I love telling stories about heroes we could hope to emulate—not because they are unrealistically flawless, but because they face dark times by clinging to integrity and stepping out in courage.

One of my favorite male heroes I’ve written is Milo, a dream-traveler from my short story Dreamskip (coming out in my Severed Veil collection on October 27).

Milo is confronted in his dreams by a girl he knows, who claims to be in danger and pleads for his aid. Initially he’s disturbed by her panic, and brushes the whole thing off as a nightmare. But when he becomes convinced that the girl’s real life might be at risk, Milo races to find her despite his great fear, putting his own safety on the line—and possibly even his life.

The best male characters are not merely “strong” or “brave,” but rather they are men who image Christ by their love. “Greater love hath no man than this …” (John 15:13). Without love, all acts of masculine strength, cunning, bravery, or power are nothing.

Avily Jerome, author, The Breeding; book reviewer, Lorehaven Magazine

One of my favorite heroes is a bit unconventional. It’s Fezzik the giant from The Princess Bride. He’s not someone who is normally thought of as a hero, but I think he is because of a few specific reasons.

First, he stands up for someone who is being oppressed. He says “I just don’t think it’s right, killing an innocent girl.” This very nearly costs him his livelihood. Moreover, even though he continues on his job of kidnapping, he is gentle with her and careful to keep her safe.

Later, when he is fighting The Man in Black, he doesn’t take the advantage of surprise–he has honor and believes in a fair fight. When he finds Inigo, he nurses him back to health. And I think the most telling part of his character is that at the end when they escape the castle, Buttercup trusts him completely. Despite his role in her initial kidnapping, she feels safe with him, trusting him to keep her from harm. He is a hero because of the choices he makes to protect those weaker than himself even when he could easily overpower them and when it would be in his best interest to do so.

Lindsay Franklin, author, The Story Peddler

Our entertainment is filled with a particular type of reluctant hero—those “chosen ones” who understand their high callings in life but just want to be normal, for heaven’s sake. And while I love those Harry Potters and Frodos in my fantastical stories, my hands-down favorite male character breaks that mold.

Samwise Gamgee is the opposite of a chosen one. It’s practically an accident that he’s on the quest at all. He’s a supporting cast member, not the star of the show. But what drives Sam is his loyalty to Frodo and his belief that there’s a greater good to be served. Without Sam, the quest wouldn’t have been completed. Frodo would have been lost to the power of the ring. Sam does the right thing simply because it’s good, and he’s the real hero of that story.

Speculative writers often express a disdain for Christian fiction because it is dominated by books in the romance genre and by the peculiarly Christian Amish Fiction genre. Stories in those genres, we so often say, do not reflect reality. They are not authentic. They reflect wishful thinking more than they do the way things actually are.

It is kind of ironic for fantasy and science fiction writers to criticize another genre for not being “real enough.” Of course I say this with tongue in cheek, because I believe that speculative fiction can do what other genres only hint at—our books deal with the spiritual life as much or perhaps more than the physical, emotional, mental life of a person.

So why would I suggest that Amish Fiction writers have something to say that might actually be what readers want to hear, beyond wishful thinking?

My thinking has to do with a blog post I read this morning, “We Need More Weak Female Characters…,” by one of my favorite bloggers, InsanityBytes, who also happens to be a Christian.

IB explained her position:

Well, isn’t it rather insulting to have “strong” placed in front of “female” as if we must now differentiate? Isn’t that just incredibly redundant and rude? Doesn’t it also just scream, the female characters is this book are so not like all the other women, you know, all those limp wristed, wimpy, soggy plates of pathetic femininity we have all come to loathe and despise?

I mean call me naive, but I thought “strong female” was just a given?? What woman is not strong? And really when the world attacks, I’m pretty sure it could care less about you presenting your Strength Credentials anyway. “Listen up world, I’ll have you know, I am actually a strong female character, so thou shall not mess with me…?” Does that even work?

Later she adds

What is with this whole idea that “weak” is somehow the same thing as “bad?” Don’t our stories all begin with a moment of weakness? Isn’t it our scars and our struggles that make us unique? Isn’t it our defects that tend to build our character? How can I even empathize with one of these two-dimensional, plastic characters who walks about like trained prize-fighter in stilettos? Like, I totally question the judgment of anyone wearing a tank top in 40 degree weather, anyway. Chasing bad guys in heels is even worse.

IB has a point, a humorous one but also with serious ramifications. In today’s feminist-driven society, a woman isn’t really quite significant unless she’s doing what a man does. Softball players, for instance, aren’t valued by the press nearly as much as the few women who have attempted to have a professional baseball career. Who makes the press, the female cheerleader who does an incredible, daring high-flying flip into the arms of her teammate, or the girl who becomes the football team’s field goal kicker?

Translate that into stories. Do we writers value women characters only when they do the things men do, or do we have a place for women who are “nothing” but gracious and kind and nurturing and stable and (hold your breath) domestic?

Do we see “weak” women as valuable too?

I think writers of Amish fiction might have a place in their stories for “weak” women. They may have strength of character or spiritual depth that far outstrips the men in their lives. I’m not well schooled in the genre, so I don’t know for sure, but after reading IB’s article, I got to wondering whether or not women can relate to the women in Amish fiction more than they can relate to “two-dimensional, plastic characters who walks about like trained prize-fighter in stilettos?”

I suppose the real challenge for writers is to fairly represent characters of various stripes. All our female lead characters don’t have to be girls that can hold their own with the guys on the team. Nor do they all have to be vulnerable victims that need a man’s protection. Maybe we can get away from the stereotypes of both extremes and write women characters who are, you know, like real women are.

The women I know are amazing because they can multitask, they can wear a dozen different hats every day, they can deal with grief and loss with the same grace that they do gain and applause (which doesn’t come their way very often). In case you’re wondering, I’m describing my friends who are moms, some who also work outside their home. But the stay-at-home moms are no less amazing. Can speculative fiction find a place for these women? Can they be our protagonists? Do we see them as worth the spotlight? Or do our female protagonists all have to do as the men do?

The Day The Angels Fell

by Shawn Smucker

The Day The Angels Fell is a finalist in the 2018 Christy Awards, Visionary category.

INTRODUCTION—The Day The Angels Fell

It was the summer of storms and strays and strangers. The summer that lightning struck the big oak tree in the front yard. The summer his mother died in a tragic accident. As he recalls the tumultuous events that launched a surprising journey, Samuel can still hardly believe it all happened.

After his mother’s death, twelve-year-old Samuel Chambers would do anything to bring her back. Prompted by three strange carnival fortune-tellers and the surfacing of his mysterious and reclusive neighbor, Sam begins his search for the Tree of Life–the only thing that could possibly bring his mother back. His quest to defeat death entangles him and his best friend Abra in an ancient conflict and forces Sam to grapple with an unwelcome question: could it be possible that death is a gift?

THE DAY THE ANGELS FELL — EXCERPT

I am old now. I still live on the same farm where I grew up, the same farm where my mother’s accident took place, the same farm that burned for days after the angels fell. My father rebuilt the farm after the fire, and it was foreign to me then, a new house trying to fill an old space. The trees he planted were all fragile and small, and the inside of the barns spelled like new wood and fresh paint. I think he was glad to start over, considering everything that summer had taken from us.

But that was many years ago, and now the farm feels old again. The floorboards creak when I walk to the kitchen in the middle of the night. The walls and the roof groan under the weight of summer storms. There is a large oak in the front yard again, and it reminds me of the lightning tree, the one that started it all. This house and I are two old friends sitting together in our latter days.

I untie my tangled necktie and try again. I’ve never been good at these knots. My last friend’s funeral is this week and I thought I should wear a tie. It seemed the right thing to do, but now that I’m standing in front of a mirror I’m having second thoughts, not only about the necktie but about even going. She was my best friend, but I’m not sue I have the strength for one more funeral.

Someone knocks on the front door, so I untangle myself from the tie and ease my way down the stairs, leaning heavily on the handrail. Another knock, and by now I’m crossing to the door.

“Coming, coming,” I say. People are in such a hurry these days. Everyone wants everything to happen now, or yesterday. But when you’re my age, you get used to waiting, mostly because you’re always waiting on yourself.

“Hi there, Jerry,” I say through the screen, not making any move to open it.

“I won’t come in Samuel. Just wanted to apologize for my boy again.”

Jerry is a huge bear of a man with arms and hands and fingers so thick I sometimes wonder how he can use them for anything small like tying shoes or stirring his coffee. He’s always apologizing for his boy. I don’t know why—seems to me his boy simply acts like a boy. And because Jerry is always calling him “boy,” I can’t remember the child’s name.

“I heard he was throwing smoke bombs up on your porch this morning.”

“Oh, that. Well . . .” I begin.

“I won’t hear of it,” Jerry says. “In fact, as soon as I find him he’ll be coming here in person to apologize.”

“That’s really not necessary,” I say.

“No. That boy will apologize.”

I sigh. “Anything else, Jerry? How are the fields this summer?”

“Green. It’s been a good one so far.”

“All right,” I mumble, then turn and walk away because I’m too old to waste my time having conversations that don’t interest me. “All right.”

“Oh, and I’m sorry about your friend,” Jerry calls to me as I begin the slow ascent up the stairs. His words hit me like a physical object, making me stop on the third step and lean against the wall. They bring a fresh wave of grief to the surface, and I’m glad he can’t see my face.

“Thank you,” I say, hoping he will leave now.

“The missus says she was a good, close friend of yours for many years. I’m very sorry.”

“Thank you,” I say again, then start climbing he stairs. One foot after the other, that’s the only way to do it. I wish people would mind their own business. I have no interest at my age in collecting the sympathy of strangers. Or near strangers. In fact, I cn do without sympathy at all, no matter the source.

I still imagine myself to be self-sufficient, and in order to maintain that illusion I keep a small garden at the end of the lane. Sometimes, while I’m weeding, I’ll stop and look across the street at where the old church used to be. After the fire they left the lot vacant and rebuilt the small brick building on a lot in town, but the old foundation is still there somewhere, under the dirt and the plants and the trees that came over the years. Time covers things, but that doesn’t mean they’re gone.

If I’m honest, though, I have to admit that during some gradual phase in my life I became too old to work the farm myself. There was a time not long ago when my farm fell into disrepair, and I thought it would be the end of me as well, because I couldn’t bear to watch so many memories collapse in on themselves. Then the family that moved into Abra’s old farm, Jerry and “the missus” and his “boy,” asked if they could rent my fields and barns. I said yes because I had no good reason to say no. Now they take care of everything and I live quietly in the old farmhouse, puttering in my garden or sitting on the front porch, trying to remember all the things that happened the summer my mother died.

Jerry’s son looks to be about eleven or twelve, my age when it happened. I wonder what he would do if his mother died.

I think he’s scared of me, and I don’t blame him. I don’t shave very often and my hair is usually unruly. My clothes are old and worn. I know I smell of old age—I remember that scent from when my father started walking with a cane.

Sometimes Jerry’s son will hide among the fruit trees that line the long lane and spy on me, but I don’t mind. I pretend not to see him, and he seems to have fun with it, climbing up to the highest branch and peering through an old tube as if it’s a telescope. Sometimes, though, when he gets to the top, I find myself holding my breath, waiting for him to fall. Everything falls in the end, you know.

AUTHOR BIO—SHAWN SMUCKER

Shawn Smucker is an author and co-writer who lives in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. He is married and has six children. The Day The Angels Fell is a finalist in the 2018 Christy Awards, Visionary category. You can learn more about Shawn at his web site — http://shawnsmucker.com/