This NaNo novel (currently at 43k!) is taking something of a fairy tale turn. I blame the websites Endicott Studio and In the Labyrinth. Well, I can never write a story straight–meaning that I can’t keep everything in the real world. Odd things wind their way into my stories and I can’t take them out without unraveling the whole thing. But in this story, the otherworldy elements fight to be stronger than they ever have before.

The other day I got into a conversation with a coworker, M, about fantasy and science-fiction (so often lumped together, which is another conversation). We are both fans (though I am only recently allowing myself to enjoy the genres again), and I was telling M how I’d read an article about how adults who read Harry Potter are avoiding reality and can’t grow up. M and I thought that was ridiculous, but another coworker, J, overheard and jumped in to the conversation. She thougth that was true and she had an excellent example of someone using fantasy to regress to an idealized childhood.

Can’t a person use anything to avoid growing up? But then, perhaps we have to define what a grown up is. Well, fantasy probably is easy to use to label a person who has certain issues. It stands out more, perhaps, than some other interests that are more common or acceptable. But plenty of fantasy is more realistic about life and death than many so-called realistic novels. I’m talking about the books by writers, not by hacks or committees who think a quick knock off will make a buck (another conversation there).

Another argument in defense of fantasy–ever notice that what you feel passionate for is meaningful? But what another person feels passion for is shallow or misguided or unrewarding? If it doesn’t speak to you, there is often a tendency to that anyone who likes it is ignorant or strange or wrong. My passion is giving meaning to my life–your passion is making you look like a fool. Right?

We didn’t finish the conversation. J will always think fantasy readers are avoiding the real world. M and I will always think people who don’t read fantasy are missing out.

This current novel isn’t a fantasy though. I think the label is–magical realism. My only problem with that label is that some people think that if you are white and writing magical realism, then you are trying to write like Gabriel Garcia Marquez or Isabel Allende (both of whom I do like to read) and that if you are a white American, you are an idiot and bad writer to do so (I’ve read this sentiment in book reviews although if my life depended on it I couldn’t tell you which ones anymore). As if only South Americans can write magical realism and get away with it. I’m not sure who that should annoy more. I don’t write like either of them. Couldn’t if I tried. I’m a white girl who grew up Catholic working class in the boondocks of central Florida. And I write like that.

So, back to the story at hand…my main character has been given a task and she must complete the task to get what she thinks she wants–in this case, a particular man. The task is more difficult than she imagined, filled with dangers and distractions, and the coveted object is not what it seems. Oh, I guess I better go write and figure out where she is right now and where she is going next. And can I help it if the house she’s in is bigger on the inside than on the outside (damn you, Doctor Who and Russell T Davies!)?