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Escapism is a Lie

25 Apr, 2024
Escapism is a Lie

As long as I’ve been publicly writing exploratory fiction, I’ve struggled to answer a casual question often set in front of me from outside of the genre: Social change or escapism? Sure, both exist, but which do you do, and why? I’ve long given a partial answer: my evolving understanding of the ways that it is and can be both. I was an engineer with engineering training, and this was an answer I could parse. However, as my understanding of the genre and the world grows (very non-coincidentally, together) I have realized with a bit of internal fury—the question is a lie in the first place. An intentional lie. Posed to us by oppressors as another roadblock to our understanding. To our connections.

What the fuck is escapism?

I wasn’t going to do the “dictionary says” cliché until I looked at Wiktionary, and nearly fell out of my metaphorical seat. (Actual ass was fine.) “Escapism: An inclination to escape from routine or reality into fantasy. A genre of book, film etc. that one uses to indulge this tendency. The performance of an escape artist.”

Indulge non-reality.

Even the dictionary is shaming our imagining. Our “what if?”

No one is one thing, but overall, I’m a quiet fantasy writer, not a cozy fantasy writer. That said, let’s take this idea, the oft-heard caution of “I read fantasy to escape” to a cozy story. A story without apparent edge. A story where people are comfortable, well, and joined together in joy without relying on privilege, though that distinction stays firmly off-page. Where even the battles require only the takedown of specific evil individuals, and where we, as the reader, feel protected from their violence by a structure (again, off-page) that can and will protect us. Now think of all the social structures that would be required to enable that.

You can’t get there by escaping real-world systems. You can only get there by tearing them down and building a world that is secure, meaning inclusive. And you can only want that world—fight for that world—when you understand it can exist.

People do need to set their pain aside, in whatever genre helps them do that. Setting it aside is also defiance, so what do they call it? Escapism. You’re the one out of bounds by daring to set your pain aside. Why not: Relaxation? Relief? Calm? Comfort? Joy? Engrossment? Enthrallment? Connection? Community? All the spectrums of love gathering together like glittering rainbow people, dancing in all the dances of the world? Because weaponizing emotional sensitivity is one of the first tools of a walled-in system.

The acknowledgment of hope. That is what we do. That is what we find. Whether in the visions of cozy fiction or the deep places of horror, we find each other.

John Jennings (a triple threat of hope if ever was one: author, illustrator, teacher) and I were getting each other fired up about hope and joy on a panel at Gen Con Writers’ Symposium. A panel I’d designed to focus on writing, without discussions of industry, craft, or any externals other than us, writing, and community. What happened? Went beyond any of my own expectations. The rather broad theme led us quickly to talking about storytelling as joy. Storytelling as defiance. Joy as defiance. Being our damn open, heart-forward selves as the definition of defiance. Prof. Jennings proclaimed, “Joy is a radical act. Don’t let anyone steal your joy.” By this point, there was electricity sparking across the room. Tangible. Shiver-inducing. Funky. Just from talking about joy together in the same room. We didn’t escape anything, we claimed that space. Our space. Our joy. Our community.

Let’s remind ourselves what oppression is, because it’s not nearly as interesting as some want to make it. Greed. Someone wants more. So they put things in bins, then judge the bins. Then rank the bins. Declare certain people or their creations as good to go. People who resist or ignore the bins need to be put back immediately. The ones who don’t go back and can’t be erased? Discredited. Hard. Some people understand they are oppressors, others are trained into supporting them, fed on a banquet of shame and indignity, and not ever truly armed except with a reflector shield of propriety.

The weapons, the shields, the walls, we are told, are simply The Way Things Are. It’s done in every facet of life. In publishing, at the high level, writers, artists, and risk-taking small presses are held down, our connections monitored and pruned, as our fruit gets harvested and repurposed. More bins get added. Bins of sales and success, and also lines of acceptance and exclusion: niche, appropriate, professional, nice, credentialed. Then more lines: grammar, format, standardization. And of course, bins of genre. Bins even more concerning when considered in the context of art.

Genres are useful! They are ways to describe our writing, and who might like it. But they cannot be bins. They cannot be used to gatekeep. And by the way, “then no one could organize the bookstore,” is really a terrible, easily collapsible take.

Spicy example? Our small press didn’t win a national-level indie award that would have meant a lot to us in our early years (this is specifically true; we have the judges’ feedback and scores) because we didn’t put a genre label in eight-point font text over the bar code. We didn’t, because the work crossed and honored so many. With a clear description on the back, we thought people could put this indie book where they wanted to. So one of the judges, rather than nip the score a bit, docked the book hard. Basically said it was noncompliant.

Noncompliant.

I understand the practicality of situations. But—when we can, when we’re able—as readers of xpfic (exploratory “expy” fiction: a phrase I’ve started using to encompass specfic as well as fanfic and a variety of cultural and community genres) and all things weird and wonderful, let’s remember the revolution is in the authenticity of our hearts. In our messy selves, our weird stories, the way we speak, and also in the way we perceive. Whether reading or writing, sometimes you may need a cozy story. An immersive story. Or going full on the nose. Exploratory media, which is often not fiction! Or all of it. Don’t let this act be dismissed. Every story you read is defiance against a structure that did not envision that story. Every heartfelt story you write, whether singing a silly song in the garden, or writing for the ages, is defiance against a structure that thinks you ought to be doing something else. The right amount of work. The right amount of rest. The right amount of imagination.

Read. Think. Dream. With joy and openness and abandonment of as much of that damn weight that isn’t your weight as you possibly can.

And please, from someone who didn’t do it for a really long time, find the way that you can most authentically be yourself, and connect, in that authenticity, with the people you love. With found family. Friends. Drop those bins too! Just be and connect and thrive. There is no greater defiance than that. The more of us can do it, the less artificial strictures get in our way.

In that context? Our reality is our fantasy. Escapism is the lie.

We all exist, we’re all different, and all our genres and genre stews are important. Quiet to Loud. Cozy to Horror. Grim to Hope. Past to Future. Cultural to Speculative. Grounded to Weird. Along with every multiverse created by expanding and traveling and joining these simplifications amidst all the spectrums of love. Whether one is exploring their own culture (terms vary by culture) or speculating on ones they have, in part, invented (specfic), or playing with alternate realms (fanfic), the acts of writing and reading this fiction (xpfic) are absolute defiance.

Storytelling is defiance.

Social change is defiance.

Ourselves, our comfort, our joy, our community—especially our authenticity in each of those—is defiance.

Dichotomies like “Social Change or Escapism” tell us the opposite. And maybe, maybe thinking about that might bring you a little joy today. I hope that it does. Maybe, just maybe, power is in the name. What do you enjoy? How do you name it? Hell, go all in: add a punk to the end. I’m Emilypunk. I don’t escape anymore. I stay. And I create.

It’s nice to meet you.

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