So the idea of this group being a naturally occurring grouping of teenagers is out, way out—and enforced contact would result in somebody being bitten, not necessarily by Scooby. Fortunately, there’s a much more rational explanation for this odd little grouping, led by Fred. It is: Fred is not the leader of a gang of friends, he’s the leader of a cult.
Think about it. It makes perfect sense. The eerie lack of conflict within the group. The unquestioning adherence to Fred’s declarations. The ever-repeating ritual of “solving” crimes, most of which play out exactly the same way. The creepy itinerant lifestyle that packs four teens and a dog in a van for weeks at a time without so much as a single change of clothes. Honestly—these are teens. Shouldn’t they be in school at least part of the time? Why do they travel so much, anyway? Where are their parents? Aren’t they concerned?
But these are the hallmarks of the cult life: The enforced separation from a previous life. The rejection of outside information in the form of education. The lack of any authority figures other than Fred and the occasional and all-too-complicit country sheriff. The Scooby gang doesn’t travel because they are looking for crimes to solve. They travel because they’re on step ahead of the deprogrammers. Somehow, Fred’s got them all snookered. It probably has something to do with the Scooby Snacks.
WHAT MY JESUS
WOULD DO
Occasionally I am asked if I believe in Jesus. My standard answer to this is “as much as I believe in evolution,” which serves the dual purpose of both answering in the affirmative and usually annoying the person who asks the question. There is no doubt that Jesus lived; I have no doubt Jesus died, and did so with the belief he was doing so for the sins of the world. Whatever one feels about the divinity of Jesus, this is a staggering assumption of moral responsibility, in the face of which one must feel humbled. I’ve read the words of Jesus, to benefit from his wisdom and also to try to understand this most influential of men.
I also read his words to understand the actions of some of those who claim to be his followers, and who are, at the moment and alas, trying to jam a certain suspect iteration of “Christianity” down the throats of all the rest of us—”all the rest of us” being non-believers, believers in other faiths and those Christians whose understanding of the teaching of Jesus does not appear to require such militant intolerance as is being practiced by this evanescently powerful minority.
As far as I can tell, the primary source of power for this group lies not in the teachings of Jesus, since what they do has little to do with that, but the simple fact that they feel they own Jesus, and have been reasonably successful in propagating the idea that their particular perspective on his teachings is both predominant and correct, neither of which is necessarily true. Nevertheless, by implicitly and explicitly claiming ownership of Jesus, these folks have made any attack on their agenda or their practices an attack on Jesus, using Him as a flak guard for policies and practices that would, frankly, appall this shepherd of all men.
Well, of course, these people don’t own Jesus. He died for the sins of the whole world. Nor do they have a corner on the understanding of his words or his work. The Jesus I know and whose words I have read and striven to understand would not sign off on much of the agenda of those who now parade Him around like a fetish, and in doing so have created this other Jesus, a vacuous, empty vessel for an uncharitable worldview.
But this implicitly asks a question: What would the Jesus I know do, confronted by this Fetish Jesus? Would he fight him? Argue with him? Denounce him? Engage in a mystical battle of miracles?
The answer is: None of the above, of course. The Jesus I know would do the hardest thing imaginable: He would forgive.
He would forgive this Jesus, who inspires His followers to persecute those they fear.
He would forgive this Jesus, who would demand His followers declare some people unfit to love, to care for children, to serve their nation, or to be full members of their society.
He would forgive this Jesus, who appears happy not only to let His followers be blind to the natural miracles around them—the subtle handiwork of God that took billions of years to achieve—but also to force their blindness on everyone, in His name.
He would forgive this Jesus, whose followers reflect His high opinion of His own righteousness without the appropriate reflection or doubt, and who aren’t shy about letting others know that fact.
He would forgive this Jesus the overweening pride He feels in saving His followers, and the pride His followers feel in being saved, a pride they believe sets them above all others, even though pride famously goes before the fall.
He would forgive this Jesus the idea that all of His flock must act, think, and vote a certain way at all times, without exception, or they are not one of His flock.
He would forgive this Jesus the small ways He tries, though His followers, to denigrate, isolate and diminish those who do not conform to His whims.
He would forgive this Jesus all large ways he tries, through His followers, to hurt, humiliate and destroy those who fight to keep their own point of view.
He would forgive this Jesus the fact that He has stood by while His followers have lost the view of the Kingdom of Heaven in a drive to gain treasure in this world—even as the least among them suffered.
And finally, He would forgive this Christ the loss of His divine self that comes from allowing His name to devolve into a shibboleth for grasping opportunists, a bludgeon to cow those who are doubtful of the wisdom of His followers’ agenda, and a mask to hide unethical practices that have nothing to do with the Gospel and promises of the next world, and everything to do with mere, banal power in this one. He would forgive that this Jesus had diminished Their mutual name, the beauty of Their message, and the astonishing power of Their sacrifice two millennia in the past, a sacrifice for all people, not just this small and frightened tribe who demands that they and only they know Jesus and what He wants.
What an act of forgiveness this would be! And what an act of forgiveness for the rest of us to attempt to emulate.
This is what I will try to do from now on. When someone confronts me with the proposition that their faith in Jesus demands intolerance, ignorance or fear, I will simply say “My Jesus forgives your Jesus these things.” And when they become indignant and retort that there is only one Jesus, I’ll probably say “you don’t say,” and let it hang there in the air a good long time. And when they come back at me with more intolerance, ignorance and fear, I’ll just remind them again that my Jesus forgives their Jesus these things.
At no point will I cede ownership of Jesus to these people, or the idea that the Jesus I know supports the intolerance, ignorance or fear they claim He does. They don’t own Jesus, and I strongly believe He doesn’t support their intolerance, ignorance or fear. And I think it’s perfectly reasonable to let these folks know this, in a way that explicitly undercuts the proposition that they hold the monopoly on understanding Jesus.
If you feel the same way, then you might consider doing the same thing. Proudly proclaim your relationship with Jesus, in whatever form that may take, and let everyone know the Jesus you know is not who they claim Him to be; He’s someone better. Reclaim Jesus for yourself. He’s not private property, His words aren’t copyrighted, and He’s not the exclusive trademark of religious conservatives. He’s yours if you want Him.
And when they get angry at you for doing it, the solution is simple: Forgive them. That’s what the Jesus I know would do.
MEETING
AUTHORS
(AND ME)
James asks:
I have bought tickets to Denvention and I am looking forward to seeing all of my favorite authors. My question is what is the appropriate way to approach an author? Ignore (or not) behavior like stalking and such (knocking on hotel door at 2 am) but how would you like to be approached? I’m fluctuating between, Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod, it’s Scalzi!!!!!! and a deep scary “it’s good to meet you, John.”
&n
bsp; Part of the problem is that I feel like I know you fairly well, because of how open and sharing you are here on the blog, but you know nothing about me. How do/should you (and us as your fans) manage this inequality?
Yeah, it’s interesting. One aspect of fame—even the rather meager portion of it that I and most authors have—is that more people know you than you know, and they have a relationship with you that you don’t have with them. I can’t individually know everyone who reads one of my books or reads Whatever; I’d have no time left at the end of the day. And once again it makes me feel sorry for people who are genuinely famous, who have this sort of unequal relationship with millions of people, not just a few sundry thousands.
I do think it’s worth remembering that even though you’ve read our books (and our blogs) and feel friendly toward us, on our end of things you’re a stranger, even if we’ve interacted with you through blog comments or e-mail or whatever. There are lots of regular commentors here on Whatever who, if they were to come up to me in real life and just start blabbering away, I would have not the first clue who they were, and I might even be a little alarmed (fortunately my regular commentors here are more socialized than that. Right? Right?!?). I’m glad you recognize this fact that our respective relationships are unequal in terms of familiarity, James, and I hope the rest of you internalize it too.
That said, you know: I’m just this guy. There’s no great science to meeting me or any author for the first time. Presuming that you are adult and socialized reasonably well, the way to introduce yourself to me is the same way you would introduce yourself to anyone you’ve not actually met before in real life. You come up, make sure I’m not currently engaged in a task that needs my full attention, say “excuse me” or “hello” to get my attention, and then introduce yourself. Whereupon you and I will likely have a nice, brief chat, and after a minute or two we’ll disengage and go about our lives. Pretty simple.
I do know that occasionally people are reluctant to approach me or other writers, because “oh, they get bothered so much, I don’t want to bother them.” Leaving aside the fact that authors are rarely bothered in this way because few people actually know what we look like, I think a lot depends on context. If you were to find me randomly out on the street or at a restaurant, this is not an inappropriate response; I probably do want to be left alone, because I’m busy having my real life. But if I’m at a convention (or book fair, or other public event), I’m generally there to be accessible to fans and readers, as are most authors who are there. I think we all generally like to be recognized in that context. Please feel free to come up and say hello; it’s not a bother.
Bear in mind that it’s not just fans and readers who get this way about writers; it’s other writers, too (because we’re fans and readers as well). I was at ReaderCon a couple of years ago, standing with a group of young writers, when China Mieville, who was the convention guest of honor (and who is a generally lovely person), paused nearby to look at some notes. And this is what happened:
Young Writer: Oh my god, oh my god. It’s China. God, I so want to talk to him. (nods all around)
Me: So call him over.
Young Writer: I can’t! I’m too embarrassed. I wouldn’t know what to say. That’s China, man. And look, he’s busy. Staring at words. I don’t want to bug him. (more nods)
Me: You’re all idiots. Hey, China!
China Mieville: (looks up) Oh, hello. (joins group to chat briefly, then goes about his business)
Me: See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?
Young Writers: Oh my god! We talked to China! (neo-pro hands flutter, legs pump up and down with glee)
Okay, maybe they didn’t giggle like Japanese schoolgirls at the end. But the rest of it is fairly bang on. Point is, all of us get a bit fannish and intimidated from time to time. But most authors, especially at conventions and seminars, are happy to say hello for a moment or two.
This does lead to another question: Is there a time at a convention when you shouldn’t say hello to an author? Well, sure. Authors are often rushing from one panel or event to another (con organizers work us like dogs to keep you amused), so if you see an author with a holy crap I’m late and I have no idea where my next panel is look on his or her face, try to catch them some other time. Likewise, if you see an author trying to cram a sandwich down his throat like he’s forgotten about the concept of chewing, it probably means he’s only got a few minutes to fuel himself before he’s off to something else. Give him a break, let him scarf, catch him later.
One other thing: Note the difference between public and private spaces, and public and private conversations. If you see an author at a con party holding court with a crowd of folks around, feel free to join in. If you see her talking very intently to one other person, over in the corner, you’re probably not wanted. Likewise: author in the hotel bar, being loud and opinionated? Say hi. Author in the restaurant, having a quiet meal with spouse or friends? Catch them later. This is all common sense and common courtesy, and I’m sure you know all of this already. But feel free to pass this along to your more clueless friends.
So that’s some general advice. Relating to me, here are some things you should know when coming to say hi.
1. I discover that as more people come up and say hi to me, and as my brain becomes more error-ridden as I ingest increasingly massive amounts of artificial sweetener, I am having a harder time remembering names and faces. So: Even if we’ve met before, I might not immediately recognize you by name or face. Just reintroduce yourself, at which point I will like say “Oh, right. Duh. Sorry,” and we can move along. I’m generally very upfront about this inability to remember anything anymore, and hopefully I am so in a charming way, but what I’m saying is: don’t be offended. It’s not that you’re not memorable, it’s that my brain sucks.
2. I am generally very open to being approached (even outside conventions, in my real life), but occasionally you might come up to me when I’m in a conversation I’m really engaged in, or when I’m busy doing something, or even when, despite being in a public area, I just want to be left alone. When that happens I’ll say something like, “Can I catch up with you later?”, which will be your cue to step away. It does not mean “fuck off” (trust me, if I want you to fuck off, I will use words to that effect); it means “please catch up with me later.” The upside to honoring this request is that when I see you again, I am likely to be happier to see you, because I know you’re the sort of excellent person who leaves me alone when I ask to be left alone.
3. I am generally happy to sign books and take pictures. However, I don’t want to read your short story, listen to an idea you’ve had we could collaborate on, go have lunch or dinner with you if we’ve only just met or go up to your hotel room for whatever reason you might contrive (and yes, people have tried to contrive, at least once, although not for the reason you’re probably thinking). Thanks all the same.
4. Also, not that it’s ever come up, or likely ever will, but just in case, here’s the deal for groupies: You’ll have to ask Krissy for permission. Good luck with that.
I think this covers most everything about meeting me.
WHY I BREED
Yet another irritating “childfree” whine generator erupted biliously toward me in e-mail recently.* This is not an infrequent occurrence, as my trolling of said population in the Whatever is apparently of some passing infamy in their small and angry circles. I don’t mind at all, of course, since there’s very little I enjoy more than afflicting the aggressively affrontable, which is what the “childfree” so frequently are. Short of slathering the childfearing in the collected mucus of an entire preschool, it’s the most fun to be had out of these little, little people with their little, little hates. They’re well up there on my List of People to Taunt, right along with creationists and Confederate sympathizers. If I could meet up one day with a Confederate childfree creationist, well, I don’t know what I would do with myself. I expect I’d probably explode with glee.
r /> The letter itself was not particularly noteworthy, just the usual childfree claptrap about how breeders are irresponsible, awful people to bring children into this terrible, feculent world and why couldn’t we just have adopted if we wanted kids and there are too many people and we’re all just gonna die in our own piles of misery and poo. Letters like this don’t do much for me except make me glad that the senders have indeed chosen not to breed, because they’d righteously screw up their kids. But at the very end, the sproghater asked an interesting question, which was:
Anyway, I have one question: In the light of 40,000 children dying every day and many more on the adoption lists, why did you feel the need to clone yourself (aka breed)?
My rather flip response in e-mail was “Because I rock, you silly person. There should be a million of me.” The response was of course designed to enrage the recipient due to its potent combination of dismissive smugness, conscienceless ego and reproductive fervor. But in all fairness it’s not a bad question and is worth a more responsive answer. Clearly, there are children to adopt; also clearly, lots of children die for various horrible reasons every day, all over the globe. With such a clear surplus of young humanity in the world, why add to their number?