Skip to main content

Who Gets to Decide?


Some years back, I remember, there was not inconsiderable clamor over J. K. Rowling’s confession that Professor Dumbledore was gay.  Having been teethed on po-mo fare, this struck me as very odd indeed.  Yes, Rowling had invented the character, but he was dead by the end of Harry Potter’s series, and his sexual orientation seemed a moot point.

Having written a few novels myself (don’t run to the bookstore, fantasy readers, for only one has been accepted for publication), I know how attached writers grow to their characters.  We are their gods, creating them, nurturing them, punishing and sometimes killing them.  We know them better than anyone.  Or do we?



Every thought takes on a life of its own.  Writers think worlds into being.  The problem with thinking worlds into being is not dissimilar from being a parent.  You bring a new creature into life, but that child has a life of her own.  You can only make decisions up to a point.

So it is with fictional people.  We who write create literary children, but then we pass them off to our readers.  With publication we pass off our rights to deciding the future of our characters.  No matter how intricately we present them, they will grow in the minds of others, taking on the attributes they decide.

Often I have read the description an author offers.  That brunette described so vividly in carefully crafted prose becomes a blonde in my head.  That man who weighs 250 pounds, I have slimmed down to 175.  The homely girl is beautiful in my head.

Is Albus Dumbledore gay?  Once the final Harry Potter book rolled off the well-monied printing press, the issue was handed from the author over to the imaginative reader.  Should we gasp and wonder if the author disagrees?  No.  For like the gods, we writers release our characters into the freewill world of imagination. There is no bringing them back.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Maybe Okay

  A couple pieces of encouraging news, perhaps, dear struggling writers.   I had a couple short stories accepted for publication in recent weeks.   As a fellow writer recently said, “You've got to keep trying.  Somebody will like what you wrote.” That’s a bit of sunshine.   And it’s likely true.   But the stories:   “The Crossing,” about two men in a boat trying to cross the Atlantic, was accepted by JayHenge Publishing.   JayHenge is a small, but paying publisher.   I was flattered when they wanted it for their Masque & Maelström: The Reluctant Exhumation of Edgar Allan Poe anthology.   Being associated with Poe in any way feels good. The second story, “St. Spiders’ Day,” had been brewing in my mind for years—yes, this is a long game!   A friend pointed me to The Creepy podcast.   Since the story hadn’t been written, I followed their guidelines of what they wanted.   It worked. I recently heard a successful wri...

Working Through It

  The thing about being a working writer is you don’t have time.   Between working nine-to-five and trying to eat and sleep, and write, of course, the week is shot.   Weekends are spent doing the errands that you can’t do during the week. I should probably have known better than to join a local writers’ group.   Their meetings, although only once a month, are all-day affairs on a Saturday.   I generally don’t have all day Saturday to spare.   I work all week and I need groceries and the occasional Target run.   And I haven’t yet learned to go a week without eating. This is actually the third writers’ group I’ve joined.   One was not too far from home, but not terribly helpful.   They met on Saturdays, but in the morning only.   Nobody seemed interested in what I was writing, so I stopped going. The second one was about an hour away.   They also met on Saturdays.   Their big thing was having lunch together after the meeting. ...

Creative Righting

  Rejection of my writing is a rejection of my imaginative world.   That’s why I was cheered by the acceptance of one of my stories this week.   That makes number 31. I’ve been working on a lot of fiction lately, even as nonfiction book number 6 is going to press.   The ideas are still there, and bizarre as ever, but publishing venues just aren’t welcoming. The other day I had lunch with a professor whose wife is also a professor.   She just had her first novel published, and so he pointed me to her indie publisher.   I went to their website to learn that they’re closed to submissions.   I have to admit that my latest accepted story, “Creative Writing Club,” was probably given the green light because I know the editor.   That seems like a pretty dicey way to get any notice, doesn’t it?   You have to know the right people even in the low circulation world. My fiction is difficult to classify.   It’s got speculative elements to it.   ...