Monday, June 28, 2010

Do I need more blood and beauty?

A good story has real risk and worthy prizes if the lead characters succeed. If there is no credible threat, it gets boring fast. If there is no satisfaction of desires, more snoozing. But if you throw too many buckets of blood on the wall or offer up gratuitous "fan service", the story turns into mindless dreck.

Then again . . . many books and other media that sell these days are very escapist with pretty people having exciting adventures. Even if one of the lead characters is average, their counterpart/mate will be some kind of ungodly beauty with irresistible eyes and awesome hair who makes the average character feel special. Yeah I'm calling you out, Twinkle-Twinkle Vamps.

OR there is over the top action that requires a dumbing down of the brain to make it fun. Over the weekend I caught bits of Transformers (2007) on TV.

Transformers is a train wreck I wish never happened. Though it made money and relaunched the franchise, it failed on humor, dialogue and any semblance of coherency.

I tried to find some rallying moment where I rooted for the heroes. Even several years removed, I still want Unicron to show up and devour them all.

Hmmm, who would win a fight between Galactus vs. Unicron?

Back to my original point about throwing blood and beauty into the story. I rather not have characters do stupid things that get them maimed. I also don't like tossing "hot" characters at the protagonists.

People want entertainment, believe me I get that. I also believe people can be smart readers if they choose. But I keep getting this nagging feeling Heritage Fields needs more scintillation to stand out.

Or maybe I am letting outside voices influence me too much and I should just stick to my guns.

No comments:

Flame and Bone

When I was made from fire
Poured into the tender vessel of caution
That keeps my smoke from rising
Quickly did I discover that apart from crisp drizzles or falling snow
The world chilled my touched
Walking the narrow cornered gap between girders and cut stone
One learns to tuck his shoulders in or risk
Jostling a neighbor passing by rapt with want
For a clear path without the distraction
Of another man's boiling eyes
The tip of a finger
That oldest of all weapons
Grown deadlier and pristine in its invention
Gathers a mote of a cinder on its bare flesh
And turns pondering how best to scratch the impious itch
Prying open the tender seam
Where the oil of thought dews
Offering a new wick to ignite
Squirming alive as a salamander of mischief
That yearns for a taste of air it is so ready to devour
The steam of breath betrays me
Before the glint of orange spreads
In popping bright waves
Eroding the fibers feeding it
Leaving naught but ash
As my shell of quietude falls away