Daily Archives: September 11, 2012

A Little Something I Wrote on Facebook Earlier Today

On my private account (i.e., the one I use for people I actually know in real life), not my public page:

The closer we get to the election the more I am reminded just how incredibly awful Facebook is for communicating complex and in-depth political thought, and yet how perfect it is for reducing the political thoughts one has to the level of hollering for one’s favorite sports teams.

I would never tell anyone not to express a political opinion, here or elsewhere; I might ask you, however, to consider whether the opinion you’re expressing here is functionality equivalent to waving a pom-pom, and how much pom-pom waving is actually necessary for you to do, or for me to see.

I made a decision when I made this personal account to keep it politics free, because I find Facebook woefully inadequate as a vehicle for either deep thought or useful discussion, and besides I have a blog for that stuff. I also avoid getting into political discussions here for the same reason. It makes my time on Facebook much less stressful.

This is a personal choice, and I neither expect or desire for anyone to use Facebook just like I do, unless they have come to the same conclusions as I have. That said, if the large majority of political pom-pom waving disappeared from my Facebook thread tomorrow, replaced by pictures of friends, updates on their lives, and witty comments about everything but politics, well, let’s just say I would not be upset in the slightest.

It’s entirely true that on Facebook I avoid talking politics, not only because it is (as noted) just a horribly bad medium for it, but also because most of the people who are on that private facebook account are people who I have known for years, including family and friends going back all the way to elementary school. The idea of arguing politics with most of those good folks just makes me feel tired, very much like one feels tired when your uncle, after glass four of wine, starts talking conspiracy theories at Thanksgiving. It’s, like, hey, Uncle Ed, we love you, but could you just shut the hell up on the subject for six friggin’ hours, would ya? And then we can all have pie in peace for once.

When I’m on Facebook, I want to see pictures of my friends’ kids and their pets and hear how their day went. Facebook is really good with that. When I want to talk politics, this is where I do it. Because this place is really good for that.

Twitter I just use to be a goofball. This is not news, I suppose.

The Big Idea: Peter Adam Salomon

Very few people in the world are truly tabula rasa — a blank slate. So when you’re creating a character who is as close to one as can be, how do you keep it real… and compelling? That was Peter Adam Salomon’s task with Henry Franks. Sit down and find out how he did it.

PETER ADAM SALOMON:

When I began to write Henry Franks, my first thought was to start with a father figure, the man responsible for shaping the only world his son knew, and wondered how it would be possible to create a false reality for that child. For instance, if you were taught that the green stuff in front of your house was called ‘hair’ and the brown stuff on top of your head was called ‘grass’ then you would find it perfectly normal to mow your hair and cut your grass. I wanted to play with identity in the same way, to make the completely irrational perfectly normal due to the ‘training’ of the child.

However, what quickly became more interesting to me were the reactions of the son as his doubts weakened all he had been taught to believe about himself. So, I began again, this time from the son’s point of view. Of course, this meant that I was basing an entire novel on a character with some serious holes in his personality.

I struggled to create a character without a past, which turned out to be a great deal harder than I had expected. There’s no history to detail, no depth other than the immediate present. Taking that away forced me to explore other ways to share Henry with the reader and, most importantly, to hopefully make the reader care for this young man.

I kept returning to the same basic questions about identity: Where do you turn when you remember nothing? Who do you rely on to tell you the truth about yourself? If you can’t trust your past, is it really possible to be human?

That pervasive sense of doubt and suspicion provided an excellent backdrop for Henry’s search for identity. In the context of a horror novel with all the requisite “bumps-in-the-night,” where even the weather and the house he lives in become characters, every detail becomes a necessary component to the characterization of Henry. If the possibility exists that anything—a photograph, last night’s leftovers, a locked room—might be crucial to understanding yourself, then everything must be taken into account.

Finally, in order to help Henry, I introduced him to the only person able to see past his scars to the lost young man inside: his one friend, Justine. Originally I had envisioned Justine as the Watson to Henry’s Sherlock (in other words: a platonic friendship) as they investigated his past. But I ended up with something more powerful than I had actually planned for, something deeper and far more real than I had expected. Justine took over the book in so many ways. She grounded it, the way she grounded Henry. She allowed Henry to trust her, she earned that trust and, most of all, she repaid his trust with her own.

What started as the quiet story of a young man’s search for himself (if, by quiet, one includes serial murders and a hurricane) ended up becoming a story about one young man meeting a young woman and together, always together, solving the oldest mystery of all: Who am I?

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Henry Franks: Amazon|Barnes & Noble|Indiebound|Powell’s

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