But I’m not going to go into them. Instead, I’m going to talk about the reason why I read Peter Pan. It’s because of a Wendy that has recently entered my life.

This Wendy.

And by recently, I mean about a month ago. She was named Wendy by the breeders, who usually don’t name adoptable rabbits, but since they thought she wouldn’t get a family until spring, her name is Wendy. We- she is owned equally by me and Larry- toyed with some other names, for example I wanted to call her Deborah Sampson, but as of now we haven’t gotten around to changing it yet.

Now, I could go on a tangent about growing up and children and how Wendy, while allowing my to retain childish joy, also is a responsibility, just as Wendy from the novel is caught between childhood and adulthood. I could. But instead, I think I’ll just explain how cute she is, and how much she likes to nibble on my sweater sleeves.

And play in cardboard boxes. We bought her a fancy chew toy, but her favorite thing seems to be chewing on her cardboard box.

I know this is a lame excuse for a post, but eh. I’ll talk about themes in Peter Pan later, right now I need to rub Wendy’s head.

Some fears you’re always going to have (like needles, those are scary) and some of them you grow into (like robots, which we do not speak about). But apparently, some of them wear off. So now, as a veteran of this war against the monsters, I can finally say that I have won, and here is how you can keep up your good fight until they no longer threaten you, either.

Scenario: Walking down a dark driveway.

Type of monster: For me, there were two- Long-Arm and Greenie. Long-Arm was kind of sweet and dopey, but had (you guessed it!) very long arms to snatch little children away, and was completely under Greenie’s thumb. Greenie was very evil and wanted to kill me. It was frightening.

Protection: Luckily, these monsters can’t move from the shadowy places. Unluckily, those places are everywhere at night. Don’t run, because fear makes them realer, but instead skip, because Long-Arm is clumsy and Greenie won’t be able to direct him quickly enough to grab your ankles.

Scenario: Staircases and dark hallways.

Type of monster: Gremlins. Evil gremlins. With teeth. (Did you know there is a horror-comedy film about gremlins? I didn’t until just now.)

Protection: Line all staircases and hallways with books, preferable paperback, preferably thick and dusty and soft. They can’t burst through the walls cackling when there are books there.

Scenario: Under the bed.

Type of monster: Usually old men, with beards and maniacal laughs and twitching, bloodshot eyes. His fingers and always reaching for you, always ready to pounce right as you’re scrambling into the safezone of the blankets.

Protection: Wear very thick socks to bed, and when he grabs you, throw them overboard instead of your skin. Also, make sure the blankets don’t hang over the edge, because the old men are strangely spidery and have been known to climb up bedsheets. Keep a cover over your ear at all times, in case he tries to spill poison in it.

Scenario: On the other side of the shower curtain.

Type of monster: This depends on whether or not there’s a mirror for it to be reflected in, and whether or not you’ve seen the movie Psycho. But no matter what, it’s going to be large, and there’s going to be a dramatic soundtrack playing while it bludgeons you to death and uses psychological warfare on you.

Protection: Music. I hypothesize that this is why people sing in the showers. The great acoustics will drive even the foulest of ghouls into hysterics, and they’ll have to regroup in the pipes until the atmosphere is a little better-suited for haunting (and you’re long gone). Also, learn to fence and practice with your toothbrush.

Scenario: Under the couch, usually when you’re watching a scary movie. Sometimes they appear outside the windows, too, if it’s dark enough.

Type of monster: The ones underneath are probably large spiders with venomous pinchers, but outside it’s more likely to be zombies.

Protection: Get a dog to sleep next to you (for window attacks) or at your feet (in case of arachnids). Actually, maybe get two dogs. And some hot chocolate, but don’t reach out over open space or in front of a window to get the mug.

Scenario: Everywhere.

Type of monster: They look like humans, but there’s a chance that they’re robots.

Protection: Run like heck, it’s good for your heart.

It’s been a stressful day, but I’ve been repeating my mantra: It’s okay, Hornet, you’re brewing tea, and nothing can hurt you when you’re brewing tea because soon you will have a mug of it and just think of how distinguished and pleasant you’ll be.

And then there is no milk. I just might have to make the saddest face ever.

I discovered this new love of tea on Sunday. I was cold, and kind of tired, and I wasn’t hungry but my stomach felt kind of empty. And I was watching Downton Abbey, which is set in Britain, and so of course I had the idea that I would drink some tea, just like all of the characters there do about three times a day. And so I did, and then I was just settling down with some Lipton black, plenty of milk, very little sugar, and then there was a war scene.

I know you’re supposed to get more jaded to violence as you see more of it, but I’ve found that the older I get, the less able I am to tolerate it. So World War One is going on, and there are bombs, and I was all alone in my house, and I was just so sad because war is just terrible, and I was drinking my tea, and it felt sympathetic, and ever since then tea and I have had a special bond. It has now become my late-night routine to make myself a cup of decaffeinated tea to enjoy with some chocolate while I’m reading or puttering around the internet or however I unwind before brushing my teeth and reading in bed.

But apparently not today. And that is the saddest thing.

Also, if anyone is interested, I’m doing the theme-a-day challenge on Figment, where I write a short little piece every weekday to their prompt. While most of it is absolute crap, if anyone gets bored between blog posts and just has to read something of mine for some weird reason, you can check it out here.

Enjoy a cup of tea for me.

Alright. Have I chased away all of my readers yet? No, there are still those remaining who just don’t care about spoilers? Okay, well, I could explain the whole plot, or I could just show you the movie trailer. Because apparently they do not know the meaning of “spoiler”.

So basically, there are three students raised in a boarding school. Kathy, our narrator (the blond one); Ruth, her best friend (the dark-haired one); and Tommy, Ruth’s boyfriend who Kathy loves. And they’re clones, raised to be organ donors until thpey “complete,” until they die. But they’ve been raised in a rich, wonderful enviornment, raised educated and cultured and mostly happy. But they still die in the end. And they know that’s what’s going to happen. There are rumors of how they can put their donations off for a few years through one method or another, but they know that in the end they will die young and sick and used up. And they don’t really fight this.

So I was reading the book on my bed, with my unbearably adorable dog Lindy sleeping at my feet. And I was at the end, and Ruth was completing, and Tommy was completing, and they’re learning that they never could have gotten extra time, and that their lives were more or less worthless, and that the Hailsham experiment to prove that they were deserving human beings had failed, and the next generation of clones were going to be raised as nothing more than cattle. And so I was nearly crying and it was so well done and so heartbreaking, and it was right at that moment when Lindy started snoring.

Have you ever heard a dog snore? Especially one that has such floppy ears, and is such a weirdo, and you love so much? Well, I naturally had to put my book down and rub her tummy, and she sort of groaned and squirmed around on her back. And so I was thinking- “Isn’t this the important part? We can complete or not, but until then, we have love, and we have art, and shouldn’t that be the part that matters, not our donations?”

And the answer I came up with was no.

I’m not one of those Zombies Are People Too campaigners, and I don’t think that the happy ending to that story would be for Kathy and Ruth and Tommy to live until the natural end of their days. That’s one of the things I think is most interesting about the books. Even the people who created Hailsham and truly believe that the clones deserve to be treated as human, even they don’t think that the cloning system can be abolished. Because yes, it’s terrifying to grow children just to cut them to pieces once they’re adults, but it’s also terrifying to live in a world where children grow up just to die of cancer. And that’s ultimately why Hailsham failed, because it’s too hard to have to face that choice, and so it’s easier to grow your organs in factory farms and not think of them as children at all.

I think Hailsham was a lovely idea, and I think that clones need to be seen as something more than just freaks of nature, but I also think that being a clone is rightly more important to them than being good at art or sports or whatever. I’m not trying to push the idea that they shouldn’t enjoy anything because they’re going to die, absolutely not, but throughout the book there’s this sense that being a donor is their defining identity. They list themselves as donor first, and then friend and poet and all the rest. And I know I’m going out on a bit of a limb here, but is that so wrong?

I’m an organ donor myself. Well, not yet, but someday. My name’s in a computer somewhere and when I die, I sincerely hope that it will be with minimal damage to my heart and lungs and liver and all the other parts of me that I want them to take out and give to other people when I’m gone. I know this is very different than being a Hailsham student, since I’m going to die of natural causes and they’re going to have their futures snatched away. But in the movie, there’s a scene where Kathy reflects on how the students aren’t so different than normal people after all, because in the end we all complete. We all die. And when that happens, what would I rather be remembered as? A musician? Or someone whose death gave someone else a life?

But then, I’m only thinking about this rationally. The characters in the novel also know this rationally, that what they’re doing is important. But it’s very different from knowing this as an objective statement that you might blog about in one of your countless afternoons of a very long life, and knowing this when you receive your notice that your fourth and final donation is scheduled for next week.

Near the end of the book, the Hailsham teachers admit that they mislead the students into not fully understanding that they were going to die. Oh, they knew it all right, just like I know it and you know it. We know it’s going to happen someday, and that we can’t fight it. But we don’t know it in the same way that someone with a terminal disease knows it. And even though being an organ donor in this world is, more or less, a terminal disease, the students are lied to and fooled so that they won’t see it that way. This is for their own good, the teachers believe. Because if you know, really and truly know and comprehend that you’re going to die in fifteen years, you won’t be able to live your life at all in the time you’ve got left. These teachers are morally conflicted and almost repulsive to the reader, because they are so firm in their belief that they’re doing the right thing even as they’re raising these children to their deaths.

But I think that in this case, it really is a mercy. A creepy, unforgivable mercy, but still kind all the same. The thing that really sticks with you in the books is that even though I’m probably coming off as a terrible person for writing a post agreeing with them, and the teachers were really conflicted, ugly characters, they were also a little bit right. Just, it’s the kind of right that you don’t want to be associated with. Just like the people in the story need the organs, really do need the organs, but can’t stand the thought of where the parts come from. And the whole merciful misleading thing, I think, is a prime example of this. It’s a horrible thing to raise children not to understand their incoming demise, not to fight or even question it, to raise them just so that they’ll die but lie to them about it so they can be happy. And the thing is, despite the horribleness, Kathy and Ruth and Tommy were happy, in a way that they couldn’t be without the lies. Happy in a way that meant they got their hearts terribly broken in the end, when they learned the truth. But they had more of a childhood than so many of the other clones could even dream of.

I mean, sometimes I wish that someone could lie to me, so that I wouldn’t have to think about everything in my life being overshadowed by my death. Doesn’t everyone?

So, yes. Lovely book, makes you uncomfortable with your own morality, makes you think, makes you cry, makes you pet your adorable dog. I hope you guys enjoyed it too.

Because I have to go to school tomorrow and I have not had a very relaxing weekend, what with my ridiculously high word count goal, when I finished early today, I thought it was completely acceptable to kick back and watch a guilty-pleasure movie.

What I settled on? The Black Death, a period drama about… well, take a wild guess. I mentioned the high hopes I had for this movie in an early post, but it didn’t quite live up to the standards- my parents both hated it because the plot really rode on the coattails of gore and corpses- but the thing is, whenever I need to veg out, I don’t watch chick flicks. I watch really bad fantasy movies.

When I’m reading a book, I read it for the characters. I don’t care how snazzy your world is, how intricate the plot threads are, all of that stuff comes second. What I care about are the people living there. Whenever anyone asks me what I think of the plot, the answer is always “It depends on the characters” because it does. I don’t read books so I can see events happen, I read books so I can see interesting and intelligent characters respond to events. Period.

Movies, on the other hand, are different. While I do enjoy thought-provoking character dramas quite a lot, movies are a much more visually appealing form of entertainment than books. So when I’m watching a movie, I’m also watching for blocking, voices, scenery, costumes. The setting is far, far more important in a movie than a book.

I do this thing- I guess it’s because I’m a writer, or maybe just because I’m pretentious- where when I’m reading something or watching something, I sort of break off pieces of the world and cobble them together in my head. I’ll throw my own characters into the story, or borrow the inflection of a line, or steal a prop, and then this starts a chain reaction in my head where I get caught up in the world. And I love it when that happens, because my life is kind of boring and I prefer living in other places. The funny thing is, though, that the better-constructed a book is, the less I’m involved. And this is great when I want to actively read and focus on themes and characters and strong emotions. The world is complete, whole, nuanced, finely crafted. I can’t slip in there, and I don’t even want to, I care so much about the characters. In one of my guilty pleasure books… not so much.

But that’s okay, because when I want to indulge, I don’t want to think about other characters’ problems. I want to be given a fantasy world to be set loose in so I can have me some adventures.

And in that respect, The Black Death works wonderfully. Because the characters, while well-acted, are fairly stock, and the plotline is interesting but not very in-depth. The only really impressive feature of the movie is the setting. You can practically feel the dirt on your skin, no one has good teeth, and the whole thing is completely medieval.

So when I go to bed tonight, I’m not going to be angsting over Osmond’s love issues or whether or not religion is justified. It wasn’t a good enough movie for that. I am, however, going to be taken to a world where I can run around in tunics and have intricately braided hair, and that’s one of my favorite things in the entire world. So don’t judge me when I read Eragon for the fifth time or check out that really weird Red Riding Hood movie. I’m not going to them for their intellectual value. The point is so that I can be taken away to a fantasy world through no effort of my own, and have the silly fun in the way that you have while wielding a claymore, because I’ve had enough angst with my own characters and right now I just want to kill some orcs and look really hardcore while doing it.

Also, in case anyone is curious about how my brain is holding up during the NaNo, here’s a handy little activity that you can use to get the feel for it: Put on some headphones, pop in that campy movie you’ve practically memorized, mute it, and listen to this song on repeat the entire time. No breaks! Repeat every day for a month.

So yup, I’m staying perfectly sane.

I’m not sure how this happened.

So, it’s time to prepare? By outlining, and making character sheets, and getting ahead on schoolwork, and stockpiling chocolate like some responsible person?

Of course not. Hey, at least this year I have a plot. That’s better than sometimes. Plot the second, if you’re curious, thanks to much prodding from some of my lovely YWP friends. I have to admit, I’m excited. Which is why I’m writing this post, instead of finishing the Harry Potter one I had planned. But I’m also a procrastinator, which is why I’m writing at all instead of doing important things. It’s a common writer’s ailment.

So on art sites, there’s a thing where to get pumped for NaNo you make a calender that reflects the state of your sanity as things go along. Usually pretty funny and keep you updated on the amount of words you’re supposed to have written. I don’t know how to make calenders, but I figured I could come up with some semi-witty quips. So I’m going to schedule what the next month is going to look like.

Day 1- 1667 words- I LOVE WRITING AND EVERYTHING ABOUT IT

Day 2- 3334 words- You mean I have to do this every day?

Day 3- 5001 words- Okay, I’m getting the hang of this. Steady work. I’m like professional. I’m doing so well.

Day 4- 6668 words- Hahaha. Won’t I laugh when all those frivolous partiers are still shallow and I’m published. (You mean I really have to spend my Friday nights locked in my room?)

Day 5- 8335 words- I can’t write now! I’m watching Doctor Who/Firefly/Sherlock/whatever.

Day 6- 10002 words- You know, I think my story could be benefited by including some pirates… ones who sing really long drinking songs… yeah…

Day 7- 11669 words- I can’t tell if I’m hungover from caffeine, chocolate, or whining protagonists.

Day 8-  13336 words- Has anyone in my story developed multiple personalities yet?

Day 9- 15003 words- What was I thinking with that whole multiple personality thing? I need to get this story back on track.

Day 10- 16670 words- I can’t read the handwriting of my outline. Was it that important in the first place?

Day 11- 18337 words- Writing? Pssh, I’m building a fort out of blankets!

Day 12- 20004 words- Have I introduced any quirky side characters yet?

Day 13- 21671 words- What day of the week is it? Am I supposed to be at school? Am I supposed to have written anything coherent?

Day 14- 23338 words- My ears seem to have grown around my headphones. How odd.

Day 15- 25o05 words- Halfway there! I’ll reward myself with a shower.

Day 16- 26672 words- Can’t give up now.

Day 17- 28339 words- Have I killed any quirky side characters yet?

Day 18- 30006 words- There is no shame in inviting some foreign spies into my novel about now.

Day 19- 31673 words- Step outside for some reason. Become very confused by the sunlight. Go write some more.

Day 20- 33340 words- I can remember the words to every single one of my guilty pleasure songs, but can I remember how to spell my protagonist’s name? Probably not!

Day 21- 35007 words- I’m really confused as to why I’ve signed up for this and why I can’t stop. Time to have some existential angst about novelling.

Day 22- 36674 words- Can I still get Halloween candy for cheap?

Day 23- 38341 words- One week left! How much sleep does one person need, anyways?

Day 24- 40008 words- I think it’s high time I killed off my protagonist.

Day 25- 41675 words- I’d try to figure out how many words behind I am, but my brain is far too fried for math.

Day 26- 43342 words- Is it time for a cake break yet?

Day 27- 45009 words- Word war time- all night long.

Day 28- 46676 words- I fell asleep in class, but I worked out my plot hole!

Day 29- 48343 words- Is it bad that I hear my character’s voice from the corners of dark rooms?

Day 30- 50000 words- I’ve forgotten how to write conclusions, but I’m about to remember what it’s like to have a life!

Day 31- finished- NaNoWriMo withdrawal. I forget my purpose in the world, sob on the forums, plan for my next novel, and have sudden amnesia about just how terribly difficult all that was. Hurrah!

And if you think that got less original as the end grew closer, that was done intentionally so that you could see the deteriorating mental state of the poor writer. Totally. *nodnod*

So November is fast approaching. I have two plot ideas, I love them both, and I can’t decide. Help?
I have attempted to write them up like book blurbs. Pretend you’re in a store and have to buy one. Which looks more appealing? Also, I am sorry for being really terrible at writing up book blurbs. I’m pretending that I can write really good and that the themes I mention will actually appear in the books, because I can dream, right?

Plot the first: Gretel
Witches run away to the city when they turn thirteen. But M.’s spent three years sleeping on park benches and eating food out of trash bins, and she’s come no closer to finding the spells that can keep her safe from the nightmares, the memories of what had happened before. M.’s not even sure if it’s possible to believe in magic, or God, or tomorrow. But when an old woman brings M. into her collection of girls, M. starts to realize that magic can be found in the cracks of things, and that without it M. will surely die. In this retelling of the classic fairy tale, Hornet combines the pastel world of a girl’s childhood imaginings with the gritty reality of a teenage runaway, and paints an image of what it is to be connected to another person.

Plot the second: Lavender and Rosemary
Ursa and Mila have nothing and nowhere and have long since forgotten what it is to live in the world. Adrift on their flying ship above the crumbling world below, the two hold each others’ wrists to remember what it feels like to have a pulse, and also to be loved. Set against the backdrop of a world ruined by disease, two young women travel the skies, trying to make sense of how things can fall apart so quickly, and what they need to build it again. Ursa is the strong one, Mila is the beautiful one. Ursa dreams of planting flowers in the graves and Mila plans to shrivel her dreams to lessen the disappointment. And love might have given them a reason to live, but it has not given them a home.

Plot the third: Exactly the same as the second, except with a heterosexual romance. Why this would matter to some of you is beyond me, as it changes exactly nothing about the plot except for the pronouns I use, but I don’t want my results getting skewed because people get uncomfortable with lesbians.

*cringes* Goodness, those sound pretentious. I really am sorry.

If you made it through them without laughing hysterically and deciding never to read my writing again, could you please complete this simple poll?

This is just one of the many, many Dark Mark tattoos you’ll find through a simple Google search. And I think there’s something very misguided about this.

For those of you not in the know, the Dark Mark is the tattoo that followers of You-Know-Who that heats up to call them to his side when he wants to kill people. Generally not a very nice thing to have. And yet so many fans are getting them on their own skin, permanently. This is especially glaring since after the end of the series, there’s another possible tattoo form, the Hallows mark, which is firmly in the camp of the good guys. So why all the evil?

And then there’s the sorting. Depending on your internet group, you’ll find a lot of people sorted into one house or another- Gryffindor for the generic fans or the real purists, Ravenclaw for those who want to be seen as clever and quirky, Hufflepuff for the ones with obscure favorite characters, and then there are the Slytherins. There are a lot of Slytherins.

Slytherin, again for the unaware, is the “evil” house. It’s where Harry’s archnemsis and least favorite teacher and mortal enemy who killed his parents were all part of. It’s the place full of racists and eugenicists. The Sorting Hat describes them as “cunning” and “power-hungry” and willing to “use any means to achieve their ends.” They also have the symbol of the snake, coincidentally the same animal that just happened to crop up to kill and bunch of students in the second book, and the hero of the seventh, and also follow He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named around. Slytherin: A Nasty Bunch.

There are those who take up the green and silver banner to try and redeem the Slytherin name. The fact is that while they’ve been pushed into OMGZ EVIL territory by many fans and the book, their official trait is “ambitious.” Heinous, right? So there is a large number of people who want to be Slytherins because they think ambition is not bad and learning to see the gray areas of right and wrong is an important, if distasteful, skill to have. I agree with them.

But then there are these people. The ones who get the Dark Mark on their bodies. Who think it’s cool to be evil. I hate those people. The ones who think that being friendly is lame, being optimistic is hilariously deluded. There’s this whole mindset of “If I’m cynical of what’s going on, it means I’m exempt from any blame.” You’ll find it in critics everywhere. And now it’s making its way into the fan world, where the only way to be sexy and important is to be evil. Embrace the evil. Otherwise you won’t be able to wear leather, and then if things go wrong, you’ll look like an idiot for not scrutinizing them earlier.

When it comes to Harry Potter- or any fandom, really- it just makes me sad. This whole idea. Because one of the things I love about nerds and geeks and fans of things is that a lot of the time, they aren’t afraid to be excited. Ever go to a premiere of a big movie like Harry Potter or Star wars? And seen everybody dressed up in robes and glasses. Or gone to a book-release party and stayed up all night singing silly songs about the characters and geeking out. I love those. I love it when people are excited and aren’t afraid to be excited and aren’t afraid that they’ll look stupid about being excited and really do want to hang out with other fans so that their excitement can feed other excitement.

For example: The other day, I figured out what my sister and I could be for Halloween. I was super happy because it combined my three favorite things to learn about: Pirates, historical figures, and girls who dress up as boys. And so I was very thrilled about this and had to jump around squeeing and dancing. And using exclamation points! And I looked like an idiot, sure, but it was fun.

So then you have these people who are afraid to be excited and afraid to have fun because if they’re anything other than way hip all the time, they would be part of the stupid people if something went wrong. So instead they have to be evil, because being a Hufflepuff and enjoying herbology means they’ll get dirt under their fingernails.

Well you know what? Hufflepuff pride, everyone. I’ve wasted a whole lot of my life being silly and wearing leather jackets over the heart on my sleeve, and I want to get really, really happy that Bitterblue is coming out in May. And look forward to it. And if it sucks, I’ll be sad, but maybe I’ll have gotten a neat character costume out of it.

Well, that one tied for most popular response. Which isn’t saying much, since I got maybe five responses in total, but still. It’s got me thinking about what actually makes art “clean” and how weird our rating system is.

This was also partly spurred on by the movie The King’s Speech, which not only is much more talented than any of my stuff but also rated R. For those of you not familiar with the movie, it’s about King George working to overcome his speech impediment. Sounds racy, right? This movie is completely wholesome and heartwarming. It also has a scene were, during his speech therapy, George is invited to swear to try and overcome his inhibitions about talking. So he says the F word about a dozen times, at no one. And that is why this movie is rated R in America. Because goodness, what kinds of lessons will a movie like that teach you? That you can take a situation you didn’t want and are unhappy in and work hard to succeed in it and make the best of it? Dearie me, we can’t have that.

And then while we were watching that, Lydia was dozing on the couch, so my mom was joking and saying “Did you catch the R-rated scene?” And Lydia was like, “No, I must have been sleeping- what happened?” When I explained it to her, she replied, “Oh, I thought you meant they were having sex or something.”

But that’s another thing about these rating people. People exploding they’ll show under PG-13, but if you catch on whiff of a naked body, that’s R! And I don’t understand that. Really, I don’t. And I would appreciate it if someone who did marched right over to the comment’s section and explained to me why a scene where two respectful adults be intimate with each other (and use protection, I should hope) is supposed to be more damaging to me than watching someone die. Make love, not war, right?

And I know there are some things little children shouldn’t do. Like have sex. But I think that blocking the knowledge completely is worse than allowing them to see it in a positive light. I admit I don’t know much about this, but isn’t there more to the situation than those middle-school sex ed films? You know, the bit where people are people and have relationships? I would like to see some trusting, healthy relationships shown to kids. And maybe that way people’ll be less likely to do it with some creeper just to be rebellious and get back at their parents. When you’ve got relationships that are abusive, or people using sex to deny their problems, or other unhealthy ways, then I’d understand your concern. But if people are terrified that viewers will learn from example, let’s make sure the examples they’re exposed to are good ones. I’d much rather have a safely sexually active child than a murderer (which, I might point out is shown as “cool” in some PG-13 movies. Way to send mixed messages, People Who Write Arguments Against Showing Sexuality On Screen! Where’s your monkey-see, monkey-do fear now?)

Oh wait, I’ve come up with the answer to why showing sex can be dangerous. What if the sex scene has two women, or two men? What if they have an age difference that challenges our social norm? What if they like bondage, or one is a teacher, or they’re unmarried or interracial? That’s where things get sticky. But that’s why it’s always a good idea to check out a detailed explanation of questionable content in a movie rather than just trust the rating. Because even if you’re the type of person to think any depiction of sexuality is terrible, what about The King’s Speech? What about Once, where you learn the message of being responsible in life and to enjoy music (and also hear the actors say the F word, in a non-discriminatory way)? Billy Elliot, about learning to not let gender roles hold you back (again, this includes some swearing and some positive morals)? If I were to call you a F-ing [expletive], that’s insulting, and I’d understand wanting caution. But then if, like in the above, I say you look F-ing gorgeous, is that so inherently bad?

Then there’s the third reason for ratings, which is drugs and other substances. Now, I know I’m a hippie, but I would argue that (similar to sex scenes and swears) it’s not if you use drugs but how you use drugs. Drinking and driving? A negative choice. Drinking after making arrangements to have a sober person drive you home safely? I don’t care. Whether or not marijuana should be legalized is a conversation for another time, and I don’t advocate obtaining it through shady methods, but the point I’m trying to make is the responsibility part of it all. When we send out this message that ever single use of drugs or alcohol (or all swearing, or all sex) is equally depraved and negative, we’re not teaching our kids the important lesson: That no matter what your views are on same-sex relationships/underage drinking/swearing, there’s still a difference between acting dangerously and using your noggin. Kids experiment, it’s just what happens. Try to find me a grow-up who’s never done anything that would have shocked their parents. Go on, I’ll wait. Given up yet? That’s because teenagers will be teenagers. And if they have to act like that, I think it’s fucking important that they know how to do it safely, respectfully, and somewhat inoffensively.

Also, no matter what you think about all this, can we at least agree that letting movies where the hero kills faceless bad guys to be presented as awesome get passed on a PG-13 rating is absurd? Come on, people. Really.

Anyways. The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas, if you don’t know, is a book by John Boyne about the Holocaust through the eyes of nine-year-old Bruno. I’ll explain the plot fully once I’ve given the spoiler warning.

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Bruno is an nine-year-old boy, who, like all nine-year-old boys, is incredibly pure and sweet and certainly doesn’t make fart jokes. No, I’m serious, this Bruno character is the epitome of innocence in the world.

Strike one. While I think kids are really neat and interesting and smarter than we give them credit for, they aren’t perfect. They might be closer to our better human nature (more on that later) but that doesn’t mean they’re angels. They’re also stupid sometimes, and they tease others, and throw obnoxious tantrums. They’re people. So I never like it when authors try to portray kids as perfect little messiahs. It reflects badly on the author- like they don’t want humans have to be responsible for anything, so just throw this shiny little choir boy in and everyone will believe in human nature again. No. I believe in human nature, and I’ll be the first to argue that it’s more complicated than that. Sorry, writers-who-need-cheap-characters.

And okay, Bruno does do something bad in the book, but it’s dismissed within pages instead of explored. I don’t want to know that this character is too perfect to really mess anything up. I want to know that good people can do bad things and make everything horrible and still be decent humans.

But less ranting, I’m talking about plot. So lovely Bruno has to move, along with his family, to a place called Out-With because the Fury told his father to. His father is a soldier. Bruno is very proud of his father.

But Bruno does not like Out-With very much. There are not other boys to play with, only his sister Gretel, and the soldiers are not very nice to him. Bruno changes his mind, though, when he meets Shmuel on an exploration. Shmuel is on the opposite side of the fence. Shmuel wears striped pyjamas, and is exactly Bruno’s age. They become friends.

Oh yeah, and they both die. That’s right, underneath all this cute little-kid misunderstanding is the fact that this the Holocaust, Shmuel is a Jew, and when Bruno crosses the fence to play with him they’re both gasses tragically. Out-With is secretly Auschwitz, the Fury is Hitler, and Bruno’s father is actually a very bad man. Until he realizes that his son’s dead and has a change of heart, of course, because no one could help being touched by such an innocent little spirit.

And that’s the main criticism I had with the book.

I should probably make it clear, though, that I totally agree with the message: Killing is bad. We’re all humans. We could just as easily be brothers. It doesn’t matter if you’re a Jew or a Nazi, because instinctively we recognize people as family. That is a viewpoint that I strongly endorse.

But, I’m also not an idiot, and I’m not some sap waiting to dab at her eyes are the adorableness of it all. I just thought that the book was too much. It tugs on your heartstrings so hard it doesn’t let you digest and ponder about the meanings, apply them to your own life, restructure your thoughts, any of those delightful things that good books inspire you to do. It doesn’t let you think for yourself. It just says “I am a sweet book about children! I have wholesome messages! Love me!”

Call me a coldhearted cynic (it’s probably true), but I hate those books. Especially here. If I read it right, the overall message was that we intrinsically know that Shmuel is a person no matter his religion. That Bruno, a child, does this as naturally as breathing because it is. We’re born with this and it’s only as we grow up that we forget.

I love this idea. I really think that there are things we lose as we get older, as we learn to package our world into the labels, and little kids are often smarter than us because they don’t rely on their patterns so much like us jaded grownups. Here’s where you can call me an optimist, because I think that human nature is essentially good, and that kids have a deeper grasp on it than adults. A child knows that it doesn’t matter if you’re black or white or Jewish or Christian or gay or straight or whatever, because you’re a person and that means you matter, right? And this is what The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas is all about. It loves this idea. So why don’t I love the book?

Because when you consider an idea to be instinctive like that, it’s something to be remembered, not learned. A good book on the subject shouldn’t have to be heavy-handed or melodramatic, and it most certainly shouldn’t treat itself like the most profound work ever. Because actually it’s really simple. The art comes from how you lead the reader to reconnect with the part of themselves that agrees. And that is not really what The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas does.

Instead, we get almost laughable scenes that are so clearly designed to be touching and meaningful that I lose all sense of the fragile connection I’m supposed to be building to my childhood self. Instead, I roll my eyes. For example, did you know that Bruno and Shmuel have the same exact birthday? On page 110, Bruno helpfully points out to us thick-skulled readers that they’re like twins.

Okay. A plausible statement for a younger kid, I guess, even if it is not very subtle. However, it’s not quite as easy to write off this incident on page 204, where Bruno has had his head shaved and is dressing in the striped pyjamas to sneak under the fence.

Shmuel turned around just as Bruno applied the finishing touch to his costume, placing the the striped cloth sap on his head. Shmuel blinked and shook his head. It was quite extraordinary. If it weren’t for the face that Bruno was nowhere as skinny as the boys on his side of the fence and not quite so pale either, it would have been difficult to tell them apart. It was almost (Shmuel thought) as if they were all exactly the same really.

This is an admirable and arguably true statement. The differences between us are the ones we set up ourselves, if we can see past them we realize that we might as well be similar.

But goodness, this book is just… too much. I like to think of myself as not an idiot and the kind of person who can discover these types of things on my own. I don’t enjoy having books spoon-feed me their meanings. That takes out all the fun, and is a prime example of that old writer’s mantra: Show, don’t tell.

And these are only a few times when it happens. There’s also the time they lifted the fence and confirmed their friendship by reaching through it, how their hands look the same, how they die in the same way because we might just as easily have been like that. They both left their families, they both love their fathers, they both are so darn pure you can’t help but be touched.

And that’s the third and final strike. The ending. Mother realizes that the Holocaust is bad. Father gives up his zeal about persecuting. Gretel stops being a Nazi enthusiast and misses Bruno. And the good little boy was martyred to teach the ugly adults a lesson.

I’m sorry, but no. That just wiped away all meaning I might have absorbed. Because that’s not how real life works. In real life, there are no perfect people and there are no tragically pure endings. There’s struggle and loose ends. Father maybe wants to take his anger out on the Jews who “seduced” Bruno under the fence. Gretel is inspired to learn about the world instead of moping. Mother takes a stand. They don’t just sit there weeping. And so if the ending comes off as false, if the characters come off as false, if the setting comes off as false (I didn’t go into it, but there are a fair amount of creative liberties taken with the camp, specifically that there’s no way Bruno could have gone under the fence) then the meaning is more likely to come off as false. And as I mentioned, I like the meaning. I want it to stay, y’know, meaningful to me. I don’t want to have it cheapened by a book that oversimplifies, sugarcoats, and pretties up an idea I am extremely into. I don’t want the fact that we’re all people to become just another note in the sappy music of cheesy plotlines- I want it to stay relevant, serious, and nuanced.

That’s all.