Flash Fiction: False Hope

Last week’s entry into the weekly competition over at The Prediction went well enough–I didn’t win, but picked up an honorable mention, so that was nice. (You can find their post here, and my own post with my entry here.) So, let’s try it again! This week’s prompt (which actually went up on Friday, but it took me a few days to get to it) is as follows:

100 words maximum (excluding title) of flash fiction or poetry using all of the following words:

Cauterize, Miracle, Tosca

in the genres of horror, fantasy, science fiction or noir. Serialised fiction is, as always, welcome. All variants and use of the words and stems are fine.

I’ve titled my entry “False Hope“, and you’ll find it below. Happy reading!

False Hope

The battle still thundered nearby. The surgeon put on Tosca to drown it out. The soldier on the table, despite his pain, managed a grin of thanks. Future amputees needed distraction.

“It will be a miracle, you know,” the surgeon said, laying out his instruments. Scalpels flashed in the bright light—and the soldier realized the tray held no hypodermics, no vials…no anesthetics.

“You mean,” he managed, “I might walk again?”

The surgeon laughed. “No, of course not.” He switched on the cauterizing iron. “I mean, it will be a miracle if you survive.”

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Flash Fiction: At the Edge

Since yesterday’s flash fiction experiment seemed to go well, I decided to continue with it today. Fridays over at The Prediction are when new challenge posts go up, so this time I’m entering the contest.  (No prizes involved, just a little recognition, but it’s all in good fun anyway.) I’ve titled my entry At the Edge, and it’s in response to the following prompt:

100 words maximum (excluding title) of flash fiction or poetry using all of the three words below in the genres of horror, fantasy, science fiction or noir. Alternate forms of the words are welcome. This week’s words are Border, Malevolent, and Zeal.

I should note that I’m trying my hand at the horror genre, which is really not my area of expertise, therefore you can expect clichés and groans all around. At any rate, happy reading!

 

At the Edge

Borders are thin places. This is why we shun them. We know that, sometimes, things can reach through and find us—things of malevolence.

In my zeal to prevent it from finding me, I came here, to this wooded border, to find it first.

The man who waited here for me understood. “You’ll only get one chance,” he said.

I didn’t waste time replying; I just lashed out. My knife tore into him, but he didn’t bleed. His flesh pulled away as something dark clawed out of him; and I realized that sometimes the borders are on the inside.

Flash Fiction: Turnabout

I haven’t posted in almost a month, chiefly because it’s been a busy month, and I haven’t managed to finish any of the books I’m reading. Nor have I had much time to work on any fiction–a little background work for a story, but that’s it. That’s how life goes, I suppose. At any rate, I feel like my skills are getting a little rusty; and so, in the absence of the long stretches of time it takes to write anything of length, I’m trying my hand at something I can do in the brief stretches I have available: flash fiction.

The term is loosely defined, and different authors implement it in different ways. I’m pulling mine from an ongoing series of writing prompts on another blog titled The Prediction. Each week the author of that blog runs a small flash fiction contest in which your entry must contain three selected words. Entries must be 100 words or less (not counting the title), and must be in the genres of science-fiction, fantasy, horror, or noir. I’m too late to enter this week’s contest (which would be a first for me anyway), but I’ve put together a story from this week’s prompt anyway. Naturally, due to word count constraints, there’s not much development in a flash fiction story; it’s a question of how much impact you can get across in a few words. I don’t consider this attempt to be very good; but it’s my first, at any rate, so there’s room for improvement. Thanks for reading!

This week’s prompt: Must include the words ‘deadlock’, ‘intercept’, and ‘maiden’.

 

Turnabout

“You won’t intercept them. They have eighteen hours on you.” The prisoner grinned, his teeth stained with blood. The guard moved to hit him again, but I stopped him.

“You know the war is at a deadlock.”

“Not for long,” he said. “When the Maiden gets home with that data, we’ll be able to crush your fleet.”

“Maybe.  But I wouldn’t count on it.”

His grin faltered. “And why is that?”

“You’re assuming I want to catch them.” This time, I grinned. “We worked much too hard to plant that bioweapon. No, that ship is right where I want it.”

Book Review: The Mind Parasites, by Colin Wilson

Sometimes it’s easy to point out your formative experiences. We as writers love to do this, don’t we? The acknowledgments pages of millions of books are littered with references to the authors and works that influenced us. Many an interview has asked that question: who influenced your work? Many an author has waxed poetic about it–to even begin to list the credits we’ve all read in the work of others would take days.

For myself, I’m not particularly interested in the easy influences. I can say that Stephen King has influenced my writing; well of course he has–I’ve been a huge fan since childhood, and have read most of his books, many of them more than once. If a little King didn’t make its way into my writing, you’d suspect I was a total idiot. (And maybe I am, but that has nothing to do with King, I assure you.) What I’m interested in are the ones that elude me–the books and authors that I remember, but not clearly. I grew up in the pre-Internet age, when there was no Goodreads to track my reading, no Facebook to share it, no Amazon to buy new copies, no iBooks and Google Drive to carry my library in my pocket. If I read a book once, and wanted to remember it, I had damned well better hold onto it. That wasn’t always easy, though, or even possible; between libraries, borrowed books, and things I really wasn’t supposed to be reading in the first place, many books touched me briefly, then were lost to time. In many cases, I don’t even remember the titles or the authors.

The book I’m discussing here falls into that third category, probably: the books I really wasn’t supposed to be reading. I say “probably” because it’s an assumption; I wasn’t forbidden to read it–only once can I remember them ever outright forbidding a book–but they would probably have gently warned me off of this one, had they known I was reading it. It’s not that it was vulgar or profane or any of the other things that usually get books banned; it’s just that it was considerably above my level.

Colin Wilson’s The Mind Parasites thus became one of my “white whales”. The copy I read was lost somewhere along the way, possibly even immediately after I read it. I spent years trying to lay hands on another. It’s not that the book is unknown (it isn’t); but it did seem to be rare, for some years at least. I never located it again, in libraries or used bookstores; and by the time I became aware of Amazon and Ebay, I had forgotten about it. My life was falling apart–a topic I’ve discussed at length on this blog and in other places–and there was no time to think about or chase mysterious books from my childhood. It was only a year or so ago that I thought about it again. At that point it was easy to track down–Amazon carries it–but then, for reasons I don’t know, I put it on a wishlist and promptly forgot about it again. (The book’s protagonist, Professor Austin, would suggest that the Mind Parasites made me forget, if only he hadn’t beaten them in 1997, the year in which the book is set.) I finally picked up a copy (in convenient ebook format) last week, and set about discovering if my memories held up.

Mind Parasites 1

Cover of the December 1968 edition by Bantam Books. Artist is unknown. This is the edition I read as a child. It continues the fine tradition of science fiction cover art being only loosely related to the source material. (Photo courtesy of the Internet Speculative Fiction Database.)

Let’s say up front that this is not high literature, and it doesn’t claim to be–but it’s not quite genre either. The book was published in 1967, and falls squarely into the camp of the form of science fiction that was flourishing at the time–if you read it, you’ll hear hints of Asimov and his peers in it, though I don’t think the author ever cited them as direct influences. However, it also draws strongly upon the work of H.P. Lovecraft,  and that, I think, gives it a pulp flavor that really makes it its own thing. (I love Lovecraft’s work, and will be covering some of it here eventually as part of the Great Reddit Reading List, so don’t take that as an insult.) Wilson was acquainted with–friends with, really–August Derleth, Lovecraft’s friend, original publisher, and fellow author in the Cthulhu mythos; and it was this that led him to write the book. In fact, he dedicated the book to Derleth, “who suggested it”. (Derleth also gets an in-universe mention in the story; Professor Austin mentions him as being in his eighties, though in real life he died at the young age of sixty-two, just four years after The Mind Parasites was published. Lovecraft also gets some mention in the story; he is stated to have had visions of the parasites and other things related to them, and to have worked them into his books.) It was Derleth’s Arkham House publishing company that published the book in America, though it would be Wilson’s only contribution to that publisher.

The book follows the escapades of Professor Gilbert Austin, an archaeologist who is thrust into the book’s events by the sudden suicide of an old friend, psychologist Karel Weissman. His own work soon dovetails with Weissman’s, as he and fellow archaeologist Wolfgang Reich make a world-changing discovery: the remains of a massive city, two miles below the surface of Turkey, and many thousand years older than any other known civilization. This city fits the description of those described in Lovecraft’s work as being built by the “great old ones”–indeed, it becomes known as Kadath, the name of one of Lovecraft’s cities–and the discovery sets the world buzzing. However, at the same time, as Austin (and later Reich) delve into Weissman’s papers, they discover the existence of a threat to humanity, which they dub the “mind parasites” (or the Tsathogguans, to borrow another Lovecraftian word). It quickly becomes clear that the parasites were involved in the building and destruction of Kadath and its civilization–but that’s incidental to the story, as it turns out.

The parasites are called “mind parasites” for a reason; they are bodiless, and they exist inside the human mind, feeding on the life energy of humanity. I say “mind” and not “minds”, because it becomes evident that, although individuality is certainly a thing, all life draws from a common source, accessible at a deep level of the mind. Austin and Reich–along with many others whom they recruit–learn to sink down into these internal mindscapes and battle the parasites on that level. Along the way they develop great mental powers–telepathy, telekinesis, a form of energy transfer–and they discover the existence of alien races in the galaxy. They discover that the moon serves as a kind of amplifier for the powers of the parasites, and ultimately detach it from Earth, sending it spinning into an orbit close to the Sun. In the end, they defeat the parasites, allowing mankind to flourish in a way previously unknown.

It all sounds fantastically silly, and I suppose it is. Wilson has admitted freely that he was influenced not just by Lovecraft, but by all the spiritualist trends of the 1960s, and they are evident here. It’s a sort of “humanity, f*ck yeah!” anthem (to borrow a term from Reddit), as it spends much time and energy on the strength and nobility and potential of humanity…when they’re free of the parasites, of course. In that sense, it’s a fun read–who doesn’t want to cheer for the home team, right? Still, it’s fluffy. What caught my attention about it, though, and caused me to finish the book, is the uncanny resemblance of the mind parasites to the traditional Christian concept of demons. The parasites are unseen, omnipresent by way of numbers, have the power to influence thoughts, create general oppression, lead people to suicide or violence, can possess receptive individuals completely…all of these are traits attributed (rightly so, I think) to demons. The only difference, really, is that the parasites live inside everyone, unseen and unknown, while demons are external. It’s a remarkable comparison, because Austin–and let’s be honest here, he’s a self-insert for Wilson–is a dedicated, atheistic scientist. He’s not given to looking at things in spiritual terms; the eventual reveal of the origin of the parasites is quite scientific. However, even Austin is forced to admit as the story progresses that he can’t rule out some sort of benign, friendly power working on the side of humanity against the parasites, though he tries desperately to minimize it. It makes me wonder what Wilson’s personal worldview was, and if it changed throughout his life.

There were many things I had forgotten from my childhood reading. I remembered the buried city of Kadath, and the expedition to unearth it; I also remembered the matter of sinking down into the mind to fight the parasites. (I suspect I may have conflated those two things a bit–the descent into the earth and the descent into the mind.) I forgot completely about the world war that begins during the story, and the sabotage to Austin’s group at one point, and the telekinetic powers, and the matter of the aliens, and the relocation of the moon. Still, what I do remember, I remembered very well, as it turns out.

Earlier I mentioned that I consider this book to be an influence on my writing. Perhaps it’s not as direct as, say, Stephen King; but what I picked up from The Mind Parasites is the trick of having characters engage in introspection. That can be a double-edged sword, of course; and it’s also perfectly appropriate to have characters who don’t self-reflect, assuming that that is a facet of their characterization. Colin Wilson taught me–at a time that was very likely before my earliest attempts at writing fiction–how to distinguish between those types of characters, and how to have introspection without slowing the story down. The Mind Parasites, for all that it takes place mostly inside its characters’ heads, is not slow; it practically hurries along.

Given that this was a matter of recovering a piece of my past, I don’t think I’ll be moving on to any of Wilson’s other works anytime soon. (For what it’s worth, there are two sequels of sorts: 1969’s The Philosopher’s Stone; and 1976’s The Space Vampires. The latter was later adapted into the 1985 movie Lifeforce, featuring–of all people–Patrick Stewart! Wilson also alleged that there was an unpublished third sequel, called Metamorphosis of the Vampire.) It’s not that they’re necessarily bad; he was quite prolific, with many published works, so he must have done something right. Rather, it’s that I don’t have any history with them, and no connection of the type I felt for The Mind Parasites. But maybe someday. In the meantime, I credit this book for what it means to me…and we’ll leave it at that.

The Mind Parasites may be purchased from Amazon or other booksellers.

How’s your reading? Where do you stand on your own reading challenges for the year? I have been running behind; I’ve finished fifteen of fifty books for the year. There’s still time to catch up! Let me know how it’s going. Thanks for reading!

TGRRL: The Catcher in the Rye, by J.D. Salinger

When I was in high school—which feels like a very long time ago now, but really is just over twenty years ago—there were books that it was expected one would read before graduation. Certain classics are just part of the junior high and high school experience, in much the same way that the Newberry award winners are a part of the elementary school experience—here in America, at least. Romeo and Juliet, The Great Gatsby, Lord of the Flies, Fahrenheit 451… I read many of these, some of which will appear on this list before it’s over. (After all, they’re classics for a reason, right?) There’s one, however, that I managed to miss completely: 1951’s The Catcher in the Rye, by J.D. Salinger.

Rye_catcher

First Edition cover.  By Source, Fair use, https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?curid=1709640

Catcher (as I’ll abbreviate for convenience here) is one of the quintessential teenage novels. Now, with that said, I’ll try to avoid the five-dollar words for the rest of this, and not slip into English-teacher mode. The book has been included in numerous best novel lists, and is hotly debated every time it comes up. Since the early 1960s it has repeatedly faced challenges and censorship, even to the point that at one time it was accused of being part of a communist plot (seriously! Check its Wikipedia entry). It’s also been linked to several shootings, including the famous assassination attempt on president Reagan, and the murder of John Lennon. It’s controversial as a youth novel for its seeming promotion of rebellion and opposition to moral values; but as always, the actual viewpoints of the main character aren’t so cut-and-dry. Wikipedia has this to say about it:

The challenges generally begin with Holden’s frequent use of vulgar language, with other reasons including sexual references, blasphemy, undermining of family values and moral codes, encouragement of rebellion, and promotion of drinking, smoking, lying, promiscuity, and sexual abuse. Often the challengers have been unfamiliar with the plot itself.

Looking back through the lens of present-day society, it seems strange to me that these things are so controversial in a work of fiction; I was reading Stephen King’s vulgar, inflammatory portrayal of Detta Walker (The Drawing of the Three) in sixth grade, and no one said a word. (They would have probably said something if I read it out loud, I suppose, but that’s a different matter. No one ever limited their criticism of The Catcher in the Rye to verbal readings.) Perception of morality in society is a funny thing sometimes; I suspect that many of the challenges stem from the fact that teachers, librarians, and other authority figures don’t want to be seen as endorsing the concepts in the book, rather than from a desire to protect children from those concepts. We know that morally suspect ideas exist; we just don’t want to be seen supporting them, even if we’re secretly okay with their existence. The hypocrisy of that statement would have made Catcher protagonist Holden Caulfield furious, or possibly just made him laugh.

I was not young when I finally got to this book. I was thirty-six at the time, which is most definitely not the target audience for the book. Perhaps that’s why I don’t “get” the book the way that high schoolers often do; or perhaps it’s my age, coupled with parts of my background. I was romantically angsty as a teenager, and even angsty with regard to my purpose in life, but never with the level of despair and disillusionment that Holden Caulfield experiences. I knew it was likely to be this way when I started the book; and I had to fight the temptation to just dismiss the book out of hand. Reading it as an adult, my first was reaction was to yell at Holden for his childishness. He’s a boarding school student who gets expelled on the day the story begins; he spends the duration of the story putting off going home and facing his parents, meanwhile engaging in various other activities mostly involving a love interest named Sally Hayes. He also meets up with his sister Phoebe, and plots to run away, but ultimately relents. The story is framed by Holden’s later experiences in some sort of institution (it’s not specified whether this is for mental health, medical care, or correction, but I have seen suggestions that it may have been for tuberculosis). Throughout the story, Holden talks about his feelings of alienation, and his disgust at the hypocrisy he sees in the world and the adults in it.  He also focuses on the idea of innocence in children, most notably in his sister; it’s her happiness that in the end convinces him not to run away.

Holden’s issues are a teenager’s issues; I freely admit that I don’t feel the same things at this point in my life. However, it’s that fact that ultimately persuaded me to continue the book. While his circumstances are perhaps a little extreme (for dramatic purposes, of course), the things he feels are things that every teenager experiences. It may not be mature, but it’s valid. Holden is definitely no hero—there’s no evidence that he’s changed for the better at the end—but he’s certainly a sympathetic character to those who are where he is in life. It was eye-opening to me as a father; I have a twelve-year-old daughter (nine at the time I read the book) who is beginning to feel some of what Holden Caulfield felt. It wouldn’t do me any good to treat her as though her feelings are unimportant just because they’re not adult yet. We all have to pass through this age to get to adulthood; if you doubt the importance of that passage, just look back at how strong your own memories are of your teenage years. Sometimes we need someone outside ourselves to mirror the things that are inside us, so that we can understand those things better. That’s what Holden Caulfield is—at least to people his age—and I’m grateful to him for that.

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Short Story: The Third Time Around by Charles Arthur [2018]

A year or so ago, I received notice that one of my short stories had been accepted (with gusto! I can handle gusto!) to a small online anthology created by the fine folks (er, birds?) over at The Corvid Review. That story, The Third Time Around, is now up! If you’ve been with me on this blog a long time, you may remember an early draft of this story, which resided on my Stories page for awhile before being taken down. Here, you’ll find the final version, which I am glad to have included in this project. As well, you’ll find a short dedication to my father, who passed away last October at the age of 62, and who was instrumental in my love of fiction in all its forms. Thank you to The Crow and the other staff at The Corvid Review for accommodating my request to include this dedication.

The anthology began as a trial call for submissions on Reddit’s /r/writing subreddit. When complete, it will consist of eleven stories by various authors, all centered on the theme of “Loss”. I say “when complete” because the stories are being released one at a time, approximately each week, in order to give each one the attention it deserves before final compilation. My post is the second release in the series. (I admit, to my chagrin, that I didn’t reblog the first story, Joe Butler’s The Lighthouse, as I should have done. Absolutely no offense to Joe is intended; you can, and should, read his story here. I will be reblogging the other entries as they are released.)

I hope you enjoy this story; and while you’re there, check out the other great content at The Corvid Review. Thanks for reading!

The Corvid Review

The Corvid Review The Third Time Around Charles Arthur Intro Banner

a story by Charles Arthur.

TCR r writing Call for Submissions

Today, we are very proud to present the second of our featured short stories.

This story comes to us from Charles “the Time Walker Author” Arthur of Beckley, West Virginia. LikeJoe “Write Like A Shark” Butlerbefore him, this is Charles’ first professional publication, and is — in part — the kind of story he claims he was disappointed to learn he can’t write. (And just how mistaken he has been…)

While we won’t be getting into Editors’ Notes on these stories, we must — with a heavy heart — tell you that late last year, Charles’ father was tragically taken from us. A dedication to him is included with the story. It is a story we trust he would be proud of.

THE THIRD TIME AROUND

by Charles Arthur (Beckley, West Virginia, USA)

This story is dedicated to my father, James Arthur. Your…

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Revisiting Star Wars: The Truce at Bakura

Way back in the mid-1990s, my parents and I would routinely pick up books from the local library’s bookmobile when it visited our neighborhood. I was about fourteen at the time, and had progressed to adult-level science fiction a few years earlier, and would usually pick the shelves clean every chance I got. I don’t remember the exact occasion, but I know that one day I happened upon a book that would change my view of Star Wars forever: Timothy Zahn’s Heir to the Empire.

I had been a Star Wars fan since childhood; one of my earliest memories was of seeing Return of the Jedi with my parents in a theater in the fall of 1983. But here was that most elusive Star Wars item: Something new. (To be fair, it was a few years old when I discovered it around the end of 1993 or so; the hardback I was reading was already battered and worn.) That book and its sequels kicked off a love for the newly-christened Expanded Universe, or EU, that lasted all the way to its decanonization under Disney a few years ago—and still persists.

What I want to do here is to revisit those old favorite books. I appreciate the place that Disney’s version of Lucasfilm is carving out for itself; but nothing can, or should, replace the EU, with the vast worlds and fantastic characters it created. To that end, I’ve started a reread of the post-Return of the Jedi EU novels, and I aim to review them here. (Full disclosure: I’m simultaneously posting this material over on Reddit’s Star Wars EU community, so if you encounter it there, it’s not plagiarism, it’s really me.) There are a lot of books in that portion of the EU, and I may or may not get through them; also I may not be very regular about it, as other responsibilities demand my time. However, I will go in order as much as possible; and if we do get through all of them, I may go back and do some of the other sections of the EU. (One caveat: I’m probably going to skip over the novels intended for children, such as the Jedi Prince series and the Junior Jedi Knights series. Young Jedi Knights gets a pass, though, only because it introduces some things that are important later on.)

Today I’m looking at The Truce at Bakura, by Kathy Tyers. I’ve seen conflicting publication dates of December 1993 and January 1994 (the latter being the date cited by Wookieepedia); either way, it’s the first adult Star Wars novel to be published after the release of The Last Command, the final volume of Zahn’s Thrawn Trilogy. The novel picks up just hours after the destruction of the Death Star II at Endor. Let’s get started!

It should go without saying, but, SPOILERS AHEAD FOR ANYONE WHO HAS NOT READ THIS NOVEL!

Truce at Bakura

For all that we love them, movies aren’t great at certain things—at least, as compared to books. The original Star Wars trilogy does a great job of giving us as much characterization as is needed—for the movies, that is. It’s much different, however, when an author sits down to write a novel about the same characters. Kathy Tyers faced a unique task when she wrote The Truce at Bakura; she had to flesh out these characters that we had followed through three movies. Moreover, she had to do it in such a way as to add to the characters, but not contradict anything in the films. She also had to do so without contradicting Timothy Zahn’s Thrawn trilogy, which was only a year or two old at this point, but which takes place a few years later in the story. It’s a balancing act; you want to introduce new characters and settings, but you can’t do it in such a way that those things should still be in the foreground a few years later. At the same time, if you add them in and then wipe them out, it feels like a cheap shot.

There’s no perfect way to do that, but Tyers did the best she could. The elements she introduced—the planet Bakura, the Ssi-Ruuk enemies, Bakuran senator (and would-be love interest for Luke Skywalker) Gaeriel Captison—are left hanging at the end, temporarily resolved, but still dangling there as threads to be pulled by another author. The threads of Bakura and Captison would later be pulled by Roger MacBride Allen in the Corellian Trilogy, and the thread of the Ssi-Ruuk would be pulled by Sean Williams and Shane Dix during the New Jedi Order series…but those are stories for later.

The book features the newly-victorious alliance responding to a distress call from a nominally-Imperial backwater world called Bakura, which is under attack from an unknown alien threat. The aliens are the Ssi-Ruuk, reptilian aliens who believe themselves superior to all other life…and who use that life as a tool for conquest. They possess technology that allows them to “entech” humans and others, ripping the still-conscious life energies—the soul, if you prefer—out of them and using them to power battle droids and other technologies. They do this with the assistance of an enslaved and brainwashed Force-sensitive young man named Dev Sibwarra, who guides the transfer. However, when the Ssi-Ruuk become aware of Luke Skywalker—whose mastery of the Force is much greater than Dev’s—they make it their goal to kidnap him and use him to entech humans from a distance, possibly even from the planet’s surface. Meanwhile, Luke encounters Gaeriel Captison, a young and beautiful Imperial-trained senator (that’s Bakuran senate, not Imperial senate; recall that the Imperial senate was dissolved a few years earlier). While the two are drawn to each other, both as allies and possible love interests, Gaeriel is caught in the conflict between the Empire’s designs for her world and the Alliance’s. In the short term, the local Imperial detachment is forced to work with the Alliance to repel the Ssi-Ruuk; but of course the Empire can’t be trusted. In the end, the Bakurans rise up and seize control of their own world, and forge a new truce with the Alliance—but Dev is lost in the conflict, and Gaeriel chooses to stay behind and decline a place at Luke’s side.

Early books in the post-RotJ era were obligated to contain a good mix of politics and action, as the Alliance focused on becoming the New Republic. That’s definitely on display here, as the negotiations among the Bakurans, the Alliance (led on the diplomatic side by Leia), and the local Imperials (led by governor Wilek Nereus) take center stage. While the story doesn’t feature twists and strategy on the order of the Thrawn trilogy, it does a great job at balancing the differing interests of the characters. Watching the original trilogy gives the impression that there’s a single great goal to be accomplished; the war against the Empire—which is synonymous with the war against the Sith—is overwhelming, and winning it is everything. It’s nice to see that the characters and the situations are more complex than that. The Bakurans want not only to be free, but to overcome their own internal divisions; the Imperials want to remain in power; the Alliance seeks allies; Luke finds himself searching for both an apprentice and a possible love interest, when he expected neither; and the Ssi-Ruuk want to conquer everyone. These goals, even when aligned together, work at cross purposes sometimes—much as would happen in the real world.

When you’re dealing with an ensemble cast, it’s hard to give every character the development they deserve; and that’s a weakness found here. Luke gets quite a bit of screen time and development—this is definitely a Luke story—and likewise, new characters Gaeriel, Dev, and Nereus all get plenty of attention. Han Solo and Leia Organa feature prominently, but they aren’t portrayed as well; Tyers made an effort to include elements of their budding romance, but they’re a little scattered, both personally and professionally, with Han giving in to jealousy in comical ways, and Leia given to dramatic speeches. Chewbacca stay in the background, alongside Wedge Antilles (who, I have to say, gets a good scene in the introduction as he risks his own life to keep a message drone from self-destructing). R2-D2 doesn’t get much screen time, but his personality is handled well enough. C3PO, however, gets a surprisingly good treatment here, and I consider his portrayal to be a strong point for this book. Many authors like to use him as a punching bag for insults; there’s always going to be a little of that, but here we see him piloting a speeder through a battle zone, disguising himself as a stormtrooper, delivering intelligence, translating an unknown and strategically vital language, handling security for a captured Imperial…all quite impressive, and demonstrating that he’s more than just a prissy translator.

Truce at Bakura 1

There are some elements of the Force worth noting here. Luke is able to sense emotions, but not read minds; Vader, in RotJ, was able to see Luke’s thoughts, so this is likely an aspect that will be expanded later. He’s able to sense the life energies of others, including the twisted energies of the Ssi-Ruuk’s victims; and he can communicate empathically, but not telepathically. Interestingly, the untrained Dev is able to do more than this, as he desperately passes a message to Luke in the latter’s dreams. Luke explores the notion of Jedi healing, both of himself and of others, which will be greatly expanded with the later introduction of the character Cray Mingla. Most interestingly, we get an expansion on the idea of Force ghosts when Anakin Skywalker appears—not to Luke, but to Leia, who is having trouble accepting that he was her father (a concept to be explored again in Tatooine Ghost). The description given of Anakin is no doubt based on the elderly version portrayed by Sebastian Shaw at the end of the original edition of Return of the Jedi, but it is phrased in such a way that it could also apply to the young version portrayed by Hayden Christensen in the special edition, if one prefers.

Overall, it’s a good read, and appropriate for the spirit of the original trilogy. The book tends to be a bit overlooked in the face of the Thrawn trilogy, and maybe that’s appropriate, as Zahn’s novels are easily among the best. I wouldn’t recommend skipping it, however; it’s a must-read for anyone who intends to read the Corellian Trilogy, but even if one doesn’t intend to read that trilogy, Truce is a great story on its own. It may not be necessary for the greater arc of the post-RotJ era, but it’s worth it for the experience. Here we get Leia’s first thoughts on what form the New Republic might take; here we get Luke’s first hints of the Jedi Order he will soon rebuild. Here are some early nods to Rogue Squadron, which will soon have its own series; and here are the first hints of the fracturing of the Empire in the face of the Emperor’s death. On top of all that, it’s a fun read; why skip something like that?

Next time: We’ll look at Luke Skywalker and the Shadows of Mindor, by Matthew Stover! See you there.

The Truce at Bakura is available from Amazon and other booksellers.

You can find Wookieepedia’s treatment of this novel here.

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Poll: Should Readers Care About Characters?

I had an interesting encounter on Reddit’s /r/books subreddit this week. The topic of discussion was Anthony Burgess’s A Clockwork Orange (which, incidentally, we’ll eventually be covering in the Great Reddit Reading List). This book famously–or perhaps infamously–saw publication in two different forms; in the UK, it was published complete, but the American version omitted the final chapter. That chapter (21, if we’re keeping track) represents a crucial difference, because it is in that chapter that protagonist Alex chooses redemption from his previously terrible ways. The well-known Stanley Kubrick film adaptation follows the American version, leaving Alex unrepentant and unchanged after his experiences. (This issue is famously divisive; even Burgess himself was on record as saying that he wished he had not written the book, largely because of the version that made it to film.)

 

In the comments, the issue was raised of whether it’s possible to care about Alex if he experiences no growth, no change. This quickly devolved into an argument as to whether a character–and for our purposes, we’ll specify the protagonist–should be cared about. One individual made the claim that characters aren’t there for us to care about:

The ‘point’ of a character is not necessarily to be ‘cared about’.

Or, put another way:

The point of literature as a “whole” is not to produce sympathetic characters for you.

This makes for an interesting question, and I’m curious what you, as readers, think. I think it’s a given that not every character–not even every protagonist–is or should be sympathetic; the history of film, for example, is littered with protagonists that are evil and despicable (though, perversely, they seem to gain sympathy as they become more iconic–think Norman Bates, for example–but that’s a topic for another time). But it’s not a question of whether they are sympathetic, so much as a question of whether we should care about what happens to them. Darth Vader was intended to be a dark, evil, and merciless villain, but we cared very much about what happened to him, even back to his first appearances in A New Hope. (He’s since received a redemption scene, of course, and also benefits from a history of badassery, but my point predates all of that.)

I think we can agree that the production of characters we care about is not the ‘point’ of literature; but is that care necessary? My argument is that care, in this sense, is a necessary part of interest in the character. If we don’t care what happens to this person, why are we reading about/watching/playing him or her?

I’m tempted to look at this from the perspective of a writer; but this isn’t about me as a writer, it’s about us as readers. Therefore, I’m doing something I haven’t done on this blog before: I’m posting a poll. Cast your votes below! Should protagonist characters be someone we can care about, or does it not matter at all?

Thanks for voting, and as always, thanks for reading!

TGRRL: Brave New World, by Aldous Huxley

When I was a teenager, I was introduced by way of school assignments to George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four, which we’ve already covered. This terrifying little novel–terrifying to me, anyway; there may have been novels–is certainly the most well-known dystopian novel; but it’s hardly the only one, or even the first. It’s a bit debatable which dystopian novel is the first of its kind, but certainly one of the most influential is Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World.

Brave New World first edition

First edition, as far as I can establish. Not mine.

 

(In fact, the novel has been noted to have directly influenced Nineteen Eighty-Four; making it even more interesting is the fact that Orwell had been, some years early, a pupil of Huxley at Eton, though not in any political or writing-related subject, but rather, in French. The historical connection, however, seems to have little to do with the writings; one novel influenced the other, without much regard for the past history of the authors, as far as anyone can tell from their commentary on the subject.)

It is unfortunate that Brave New World, today, is usually discussed only in the context of comparison to Orwell’s novel. And yet, that comparison does provide the easiest way to understand the book; it’s easier to define what it isn’t than what it is. I find myself wishing I had read Brave New World first, so that I could have appreciated it solely for itself.  Nevertheless, I expect I’m inevitably going to find myself pointing out comparisons as we look at the novel here. I’ll try to keep it to a minimum.

From this point forward, expect spoilers; although, the book is nearly ninety years old, so perhaps it’s not even fair to call them spoilers.

Here we have the story of a world where most human problems have been resolved. That’s what we’re reaching for, isn’t it? Health, happiness, peace, prosperity? Of course we are. Brave New World supplies those things; its people have every need met through a very efficient system of production. Workloads are light and easy. Happiness is practically ensured through use of a consequence-free drug called soma (why is it conventional to italicize non-traditional words like this? I’m doing so here for emphasis, but I’ll drop it henceforward).  This focus on happiness, however, has required the upending of certain social conventions: marriage and monogamy no longer exist; childbirth is mostly nonexistent, having been replaced by birth control and birthing centers with artificial wombs; crime is mostly eliminated–certainly a good thing–by way of a rigid caste system–not so good. However, no one feels the loss of these things, due to conditioning and the effects of soma. Our initial protagonist, Bernard Marx, doesn’t quite fit in; but he is mostly a catalyst for the story rather than a major character. His situation introduces us to the true protagonist, a man named John. John is the illicit offspring of two rather normal and compliant citizens, but through a twist of fate he is raised on a “savage reservation”, a place where the conventions of society are not in effect, and people live as they have lived for years prior to the new order–though admittedly impoverished by their isolation. John is then brought back to civilization, but he is unable to cope or adapt; and in the end, he hangs himself.

This matter of absolute happiness–but at a hidden cost–is common enough in dystopias today. It was unheard of when Huxley wrote; utopian novels were common enough, and indeed he started this project as a parody of utopian novels of his day. The idea that happiness could be obtained, but that it would in turn cost us something fundamental, was new and disturbing. It’s not new anymore, but it is still disturbing, and rightly so. The desire for happiness is deeply ingrained in us, possibly even as a part of our survival instinct. Dystopias like Brave New World acknowledge that, but then counter with a more frightening idea: the idea that we need challenge, pain, difficulty, in order to really be human. If we truly get what we’re chasing, we’ll become less instead of more.

This is a radically different form of dystopia from Orwell’s vision (and here we go!). Orwell predicted a dystopia of fear–one in which the government’s power becomes so absolute as to crush all resistance, inspiring obedience by fear. The problem with that kind of oppression is that it requires endless vigilance; and endless vigilance translates into endless resources. Just how many people does it take to monitor a population of billions twenty-four hours a day, I wonder? How much infrastructure? And that’s on top of the apparatus required for punishing infractions, providing for needs, and other aspects of government. Huxley’s version is much simpler, because it makes every individual complicit in their own oppression. As John’s mother Linda graphically illustrates, people want to be compliant; they don’t have to be pushed to it. After all, they’re endlessly happy; they don’t feel the loss of less tangible things such as challenge or morality. They only feel the soothing of soma.

It’s popular to make comparisons to modern society, and try to decide what kind of dystopia we live in. I’ll be blunt: We don’t, at least not yet. However, I think that if we were trying to make projections about the real world, both versions would be too simplistic. A real-world dystopia would more likely be a blending of the two; it would have some form of enticement for the public, combined with some form of invasive monitoring and enforcement. Carrot and stick, if you will. While I don’t believe our society is at dystopian levels yet, I will say that we have elements of both in place already. We’ve had enough issues with governmental elimination of privacy over the years, and especially with the proliferation of technology and the internet; and we have the same internet serving as our soma, to some degree. (And here I am, posting on the internet! Irony, much?)

But that’s just it: we’re not there yet, and in a purely Huxleyan sense, I don’t think we ever will be. The challenges we face as a species are too great for that. Death is always going to be a thing. Suffering is maddeningly hard to eliminate. Poverty has a way of returning over and over again. Diseases adapt to accommodate our treatments. A Huxleyan dystopia requires that all of these challenges be overcome; we’ve made great strides, but I doubt we’ll ever have the kind of success required for his vision to be true. Nevertheless, we should keep trying. We should work at overcoming those challenges. We exist in a strange space, where we can’t win this fight, but neither is our striving pointless, because we can still improve–even if we never reach the end of the improvement.

This is the second dystopia we’ve examined, and I want to point out something that, in my opinion, distinguishes classical dystopias from the young-adult dystopias that are so popular today. (Not that I’m disparaging those stories; they may be common, but they’re not bad, or at least not by definition.) The YA dystopias usually result in a happy ending for most; the ruling party is overthrown, chaos reigns briefly, then something better takes its place. I think that’s a wonderfully optimistic outlook, but it’s very different from the classics, where the protagonists inevitably lose. A classic dystopia will grind the rebellious protagonists down, and keep on moving without breaking stride. In the end, nothing changes. I find this strange; with the political and social climates we face today, I’d have expected it to be the other way around.

Still, Brave New World is the more hopeful of the two. While one protagonist dies, the others don’t; nor are they greatly changed in outlook–they’re simply sidelined. And in the meantime, millions aren’t being ground down; they remain obliviously happy, but they remain. It may not be much of a chance; but perhaps that’s better than much chance at all. As Huxley never wrote a true sequel (Brave New World Revisited is a non-fiction critique), it’s open to conjecture.

How’s your reading goal coming along? I’ve set a goal of 50 books in 2018 via Goodreads; you can join me here! So far I’ve finished three books: Philip K. Dick’s A Scanner Darkly, Brent Weeks’ The Way of Shadows, and Brandon Sanderson’s Oathbringer. You can see my to-read list here.

The Great Reddit Reading List

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How to Save Twin Peaks in Five Easy Steps

Today I concluded a long, long journey:

That’s right, I finally finished watching Twin Peaks!

 

You’d think it wouldn’t be a long trip. It’s only 48 episodes. Three seasons of varying lengths. Soap operas get that much in a year. Game shows do it in a few months. We’re not talking The Simpsons here (629 episodes) or my old friend Doctor Who (826) or even Breaking Bad (62). Go without sleep, and you could binge this series in two days. I’ve been working on it off and on since 2014, and that’s not counting any episodes I might have caught as an eleven-year-old back in 1990. Why so long, I hear you ask?

The answer is that Twin Peaks is not your average television series. That’s a bold claim in today’s entertainment world; but I’d argue that David Lynch’s Twin Peaks has a level of complexity that is usually reserved for science fiction, coupled with a level of pure, bizarre trippiness that is usually reserved for…well, for David Lynch’s films, actually. What can I say, the man has a type.

A quick recap, for those unfamiliar with this classic: The story begins with the mysterious murder of high school senior Laura Palmer in Twin Peaks, Washington. When Laura’s body is found, the oddities begin to add up, until Sheriff Harry S. Truman (yes, really) calls in the FBI. The bureau sends one Special Agent Dale Cooper to Twin Peaks. Cooper, in the midst of lavishing praise on the town’s coffee and pie selections, quickly finds a connection between Laura’s murder and a series of other murders which he has investigated.  As more and more townspeople are found to be connected to the crime, a supernatural connection is revealed: an evil being called BOB, from a supernatural location called the Black Lodge, is revealed to be the ultimate source of the terrible happenings in town. In the end, Cooper is drawn into the Black Lodge in an attempt to stop Bob…and he fails, spectacularly. When Cooper returns at the end of season two, it’s not the real Cooper; it’s a strange and evil doppelganger, inhabited by BOB’s spirit.

That’s where things stood, for a quarter century. Cue the current decade, in which everything is new again; I blame Battlestar Galactica, whose highly successful adaptation last decade proved that remakes can be extremely successful and lucrative. Those remakes quickly transformed into revivals, in which the new seasons aren’t a reboot of the original, but a continuation, many years removed.  Curiously, Twin Peaks seemed to have planned for this a long time ago; in the final episode, Laura Palmer’s spirit tells Dale Cooper that she “will see you again in twenty-five years”. That would be 2016; but one year off ain’t so bad, my friends. After all, in 1992, a revival series would have been a laughable thought.

So, in 2017, we got Twin Peaks: The Return, or alternately just Twin Peaks. This eighteen-episode event was produced by Showtime; and to save you the suspense, I’ll go ahead and say it: This series is an absolute train wreck. If the classic seasons were trippy, the revival is an overdose. The best metaphor I can think of is a rope that is fraying at the end: all the same threads are there, but they become more disconnected as we progress. The classic series was sometimes hard to follow; by the end of the revival, I was obligated to watch with the wiki at hand, just to keep track.

Where did we go wrong? I’d argue that the first and greatest problem is that no clear resolution was given in the original series; but that ship sailed so long ago that it’s tough to blame it for what’s happening now. I considered trying to review the current series as it stands, but I’m sure I couldn’t put it together in any coherent manner (considering that the show itself doesn’t manage that). Therefore, I’ll give you my thoughts on how to save Twin Peaks: The Return in five easy steps.

I. Give the series a narrative goal.

Just what are we getting at here? What do we want to accomplish in this series? I don’t know. You don’t know. Special Agent Dale Cooper doesn’t know. David Lynch and co-creator Mark Frost probably don’t know. Or perhaps they do know; they want to accomplish EVERYTHING! (More on that in the next step.) But you can’t accomplish everything. In that case, you need to accomplish one thing and accomplish it well.

My suggestion: This season had a lot of plot lines, but only one was truly compelling: The story of Cooper’s doppelganger. Focus on that plot–namely, Cooper’s quest to return the doppelganger to the Black Lodge, and escape the Black Lodge himself. We don’t get to see what the doppelganger has been up to for the past quarter century–although we get some hints–and that’s just as well; very little of it matters. Suffice it to say he’s been sowing chaos like a good villain. However, we learn very early that he will be automatically summoned back to the Black Lodge on a certain date, and we get to see his preparations for thwarting that event. From Buckhorn, South Dakota, to Las Vegas, to Twin Peaks itself, it’s a wild and bloody ride; let it take center stage. However, that isn’t what happens; although we cover that ground, it’s only one thread in the series.

That’s not to say we should throw out all the other characters; just that they should be here because they’re a part of that plot. And on that note…

II. Cut out the leftover subplots.

One of the strengths of classic Twin Peaks was its large ensemble cast. The town of Twin Peaks felt both real and eminently knowable. We got to see the many intrigues taking place in the lives of the inhabitants, from the Palmer family, to the love triangle of Big Ed Hurley, his mentally ill wife Nadine, and his high school sweetheart Norma, to the insanity of Leo and Shelly Johnson and Shelly’s affair with Bobby Briggs, to the mystery of Major Garland Briggs and his work with Project Blue Book. It all seemed to be leading up to something; unfortunately, we never got the payoff we needed on most of those plot threads. Perhaps we would have done so in season three, had it happened at the time; but we didn’t, and now the ship has sailed.

The 2017 season tried to pick up as many of these threads as possible; and as a result, the show meanders far more than it should. While it was fun to check up on Big Ed and Norma (who finally get their happy ending here), it felt disconnected from the rest of the series. In addition, numerous actors have passed away in the interim (or in a few cases, between filming and release!), and a few were unable to return for other reasons. This in turn led to the introduction of new plotlines, often only tangentially related, such as the sordid details of the family life of Bobby and Shelly’s daughter, Becky. As entertaining as these things could have been in their own shows, they come across as filler here.

My suggestion: Retain only those subplots which have a direct and useful connection to the main plot, that of Cooper and the doppelganger. That in no way means that the ensemble cast has to go; keep what plots you like, but tie them in. Big Ed, for example, was a member of the classic series’ Bookhouse Boys, Sheriff Truman’s clandestine group of men who kept tabs on the strange events in town. That would have been a perfect way to bring Ed back into the plot; but the Bookhouse Boys–not to mention the Bookhouse itself–aren’t even mentioned. I would suggest removing several subplots, if they can’t be tied in: Audrey Horne’s story; Richard Horne’s drug issues and the death of a child at his hands; Dr. Jacoby’s radio show; Becky’s trouble with her husband and his affair; anything involving James Hurley (who is especially out of place in the absence of Donna Hayward); and–and this may be controversial–the entire Las Vegas subplot involving Dougie Jones. On that note, it’s quite possible to make it necessary to the matter of the doppelganger; but as it stands, most of it is extraneous.

III. Cut out episode eight entirely.

Episode eight is unique among the episodes of the 2017 season. Leaving the regular cast entirely, it’s a trippy, surreal excursion into the past of the Black Lodge, BOB, and other supernatural entities–which, apparently, date back to the 1945 Trinity nuclear test explosion. The episode is structured in the same manner as the visions that various characters experience throughout the season–lots of clouds, vortexes, slow-motion speech, and smoke–and lacks any cohesive plot. It serves to introduce several plot elements that show up again in the second half of the season, such as the convenience store, the Fireman’s theater, and the Woodsmen (it won’t make much more sense even with context, so just go with it). Although the episode is  hard to follow, it’s not entirely without purpose; much of its imagery will be revisited in the final episodes. The biggest issue is that it is an immersion-breaker. (Personal anecdote: this is the point at which my wife, who had stuck with me through a rewatch of everything heretofore, decided to bow out.) The episode is so starkly different from everything around it, and so apparently disconnected (at that time anyway), that it pulls the viewer out of the series completely. As well, it’s very much in the vein of telling rather than showing, by which I mean that it’s interjecting its new contributions without any substantial lead-up or context; it is what we would call, in a novel, an info-dump. That’s doubly impressive, as it is almost completely without dialogue.

My suggestion: I agree that some of the concepts here are needed, although some are unnecessary. Instead of devoting an episode to it, work it into previous episodes. Use more visions if necessary–the series hasn’t shied away from them so far, so go ahead. Overall, shorten the amount of material by cutting the filler, and then work the remaining bits in elsewhere, so that this episode can be removed entirely.

Before I go on, let me point out that there will be spoilers for the season finale from this point forward. If you haven’t yet watched, and intend to…well, I suppose I’ve already ruined a few things for you. Still, if you want the ending to remain unspoiled, turn back now!

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Still with me?

Alright. On to number four:

IV. Give BOB a better ending.

Late in the season, we meet Freddie Sykes, played by Jake Wardle. Freddy is an oddity; a young security guard at the Great Northern Hotel, he works alongside James Hurley, and wears a green rubber glove at all times. I do mean at all times; he relates to James the story of how he was supernaturally led to put on the glove, and now can’t remove it without injury. Freddie has had supernatural direction, leading him to come to Twin Peaks from his native UK so that he can face his destiny. That destiny, as it turns out, is to destroy BOB.

The glove, you see, gives young Freddie supernatural strength, in one arm at least. He’s very good at punching, and uses that ability to devastating effect a few times in the last episodes of the season. This doesn’t sit well with the sheriff’s department, and lands him in the holding cells–which in turn allows him to be on hand when Cooper’s doppelganger meets his end. BOB, now encased in a large crystalline sphere, is released from the doppelganger’s body, and attacks Cooper. Freddie realizes that this is the destiny he was promise, and punches the sphere until it shatters, dispersing BOB once and for all–as far as we know, anyway.

Look, I like Freddie. Had he been there from the beginning, he’d be a great character. He’s affable and pleasant, and interesting. He is also the greatest deus ex machina in a series that is already flooded with them. While he doesn’t appear at the literal last minute, he’s only introduced–substantially, anyway–a few episodes earlier. He has no backstory or context within the established scope of the series. He’s there for one purpose only: to punch BOB.

This is the villain of the entire series. The murderer of Laura Palmer. The driving force behind the doppelganger. The source of years of trouble in Twin Peaks. He deserves better than to be punched out by a character from left field.

And finally–and I do mean finally:

V. Land the plane already!

I suppose I’m saying this to myself as well, as I’m up to 2150 words right now. I’ll try to make it quick.

David Lynch is a fantastic writer, director, producer, and actor. He suffers, however, from one fatal flaw: An insatiable thirst for another season. It’s a lifelong ailment; otherwise, Twin Peaks would have ended with season two, and we wouldn’t be having this discussion. I fear that the disease has progressed, in the interim, unfortunately.

Season two’s finale gave us four major threads to hold onto in anticipation of the third season (that is, the third season that never happened). We had Audrey Horne’s unresolved fate with the explosion in the bank vault; Laura’s spirit’s promise to see Cooper again in twenty-five years; the fate of Annie Blackburn, the winner of the Miss Twin Peaks contest, who was taken to the Black Lodge by Windom Earle; and Cooper’s doppelganger, last seen laughing into a bloody mirror as we see that BOB inhabits him. (I would include the fate of the real Cooper, but at the time we didn’t know that the Cooper who exited the Lodge was a doppelganger; it looked as though it was the real Cooper, now possessed as Leland Palmer had previously been.) The revival season upped the ante; the entire final episode consists of groundwork for a potential 2018 season.

All the major conflicts and plot threads are resolved in episode seventeen. Episode eighteen is forced to insert new plots, develop them, and then somehow leave the season at a cliffhanger–all in an attempt to ensure another season. Mr. Lynch, I’m saying this as your friend: It’s time to land the plane. I know this isn’t your strong suit, but bear with me.

Twin Peaks  works best as an event. You know this; you billed the 2017 series as Twin Peaks: A Limited Event Series when you released it to video. It doesn’t need–and never needed–to be a continuing series. I’m not saying that you shouldn’t have brought it back in the first place; you and Dale Cooper had unfinished business. You didn’t know, after all, that there would never be a Season Three in the 1990s. Perhaps you planned to end it then, and were taken off guard by the cancellation. Either way, the business is finished now; BOB is gone, and Cooper is back, and Twin Peaks is at last safe and at peace.

I know Twin Peaks is your baby. It’s been a part of your life for three decades. But let’s be honest: This season should have ended with episode seventeen. Cooper should have had his reunion with his long-lost friends, and the red curtains should have come down, and the credits should have rolled. Personally, I think that should have been the end of the series, but you don’t have to agree with me on that; maybe you have more stories to tell. If that’s the case, they should be next season’s stories. They shouldn’t have had an episode at the end of this season. End well, and start fresh. Or, if you agree with me, end well, and don’t start again at all. It wouldn’t be a failure; it would be a dignified and accomplished conclusion. Go out with a bang, and do justice to your creation.

This plane has been circling for a quarter century. It’s time to come in for a landing.

 

And there you have it! Five easy suggestions for saving Twin Peaks. But, what do you think? This series is nothing if not complex, and there’s far more ground than I can ever cover. What would you suggest? And if you don’t have suggestions, then what did you think of the series? Your answers are always welcome! As always, thanks for reading.