shakespearemom

I just finished the third installment of Libba Bray’s trilogy…and it was as I’ve described books to be: imperfect, but with flashes of brilliance. I think the hardest part for me, as far as her books are concerned, is how long it takes for stuff to happen. Gemma, the main character, takes about 800 pages to figure out what she needs to do, and all the time she does this, people are pulling her in other directions, none of them trying to look at the big picture except for her. But in the end, she does act, the one clear-thinking, unselfish person in the world, surrounded by a load of people who don’t understand what needs to be done, or don’t care enough to make the sacrifice. 

Frankly, I’d love to believe that I am the one person in the world looking at the big picture, that I can be the Frodo in a world of others who turn creepy and violent in the mere presence of The Ring,   the One, the Anointed, the only possible savior of a world gone wrong. I’d love to think of myself as the “special” one, with gifts nobody else has, the one whose smell attracts vampires more than any other human (think Twilight), yet who can somehow resist and defeat them. 

I’m sure that desire what Libba Bray, J. R. R. Tolkien, Stephanie Meyers, and even J.K. Rowling are all working from. Isn’t that the reason so many superhero comics are turned into films (and, of course, I own most of those superhero movies–I am especially fond of Spider Man and Wolverine).

Perhaps this is part of the suspension of reality–our desire for fantasy–for in our ordinary lives, we are, well, rather ordinary. We don’t fight off supervillains, or vampires…just jerks who hog the road and caustic fellow employees. Yet, even with those people, we rarely act. Sure, their comments burn at us, and we might rant at them in private, but we rarely have the strength to do more than that. We don’t act, even if we long to.

Now, I’m not deluded. I know I can’t fly, I know I can’t turn things to ice, or lift trains, or climb up buildings. My four-year-old son would like to pretend he can shoot webs out of his hands, but even at his age he knows he can’t. But we can all act…we can all take a chance here and there and work towards the common good. 

So, that’s what I’m trying to do, in my own small, unheroic way. I do what a mom should, raising my kids as well as I can, and I write, and write, and write, here and on my novels, hoping that they will inspire others to act according to their own conscience, instead of watching the ugly stuff of the world go on, without saying or doing anything about it.

I’m no superhero, but I might just inspire one some day.

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