How To Begin a New Year Without Becoming The Jesus Of Soul Cycle
The past few weeks, for me, have involved a lot of math. I took three economics-related finals. That was a good deal of math - involving both the calculating of a great number of marginal profits, and a lot of calculating exactly how many inches’-width-of-textbook per hour I’d have to reread to “jog my memory” of a few concepts my (lovely in every way, of course) professors hadn’t bothered to mention the existence of.
And that wasn’t all. I calculated the number of weeks in an average human lifespan. That was mildly terrifying. I calculated how much I’ve spent on caffeinated beverages in the past year. That was slightly more terrifying. I tried to converting measurements in litres to these pointless, pitiful things some people call “pints” all because I wanted to explain to someone the right amount of water to add to four drops of whatever on earth “Lilac Love Spell” essential oil is in a diffuser. For the sake of my sanity forty-four days from now, which will be Valentines Day, let’s hope I got that one right. On December 27th, I looked my neighbour straight in the face and asked her how many days there were until Christmas, so I could figure out how much longer the sidewalk evergreen-tree sellers would be around. And, I tried to prove a point about an inaccurately-proportioned mannequin by attempting to find the rate of change of the curve from her butt to her thigh. After five minutes, I felt creepy, and proceeded to change activities and stalk my fifth-grade teacher on LinkedIn.
Clearly, it’s been a long month. I still have to take a good 50 pages of printed study guides out of my backpack, and I keep finding spilled coffee grinds in bizarre places in my kitchen. The batteries in my Ti-89 are dead, and I may have stacked my beloved math textbooks defiantly under a pile of yoga blankets, but, I think I’m on the verge of discovering a formula. Let’s call it “The Law of Making it Onto the ‘New Young Adult Thriller Romance’ Shelf in Barnes and Noble.” It might be a “postulate,” frankly I’d be lying if I said I remembered the difference. It’s not perfect, and there’s no foolproof money-back guarantee, so I’m writing it off as “academic speculation” just in case. But, here goes.
Start with a rebellious, red-haired tomboy for a main character. Make sure to save a dramatically-lit, aggressively-cropped picture of her, looking away from the camera, for the cover. Have something happen to her - the kind of something that makes it feel like the ground under her feet has just experienced a particularly local magnitude 7.0 earthquake. You know, the sort that knocks off that pair of rose-tinted glasses that she never even knew she was wearing with a sharp and sudden blow, like one from a stranger who’s running late to some meeting mowing into you from behind on the sidewalk, making you drop your coffee.
Now, you’ve got to describe the setting. Some vague dystopia with limited personal freedoms, an attempt at controlling people and keeping them compliant will suffice. Make sure you throw in a few strategically-placed details that make it obvious that this is all a metaphor for the catastrophic, crazy, cosmopolitan stench that the 21st Century apparently reeks of. Fast forward a few chapters and she’s walking down some moonlit path with a tall blonde confidante, who is busy coaxing her deepest feelings out of her. Flip forty more pages to find an emotional kiss against a starry midnight sky, or a sunset in which I swear you can feel a literary Technicolour through the paper pages. Naturally, she has to have a name with an unusual, completely impractical spelling that no barista would ever spell with less than two errors. And, the book must have some one-word title that has infinite capacity for being read into. I like something along the lines of “Liquidation.” Or “Colonoscopy.” You know, something deep.
Publish, and wait for the masses of bookish tweens wearing oversized glasses with zero correction to come a-calling. Enjoy your success. Before you know it, you’ll have created source material for online fandoms, oodles of horrifying-yet-oddly-intriguing fanfiction, and infinitely many Facebook debates about which of your characters are “ship-worthy.”
Unfortunately, I’m not a redhead. I never wear combat boots, nor do I don baggy camouflage pants or tight tops low-cut enough to market sex-appeal for Potential Future Mediocre Movie. For the sake of any babushkas reading this, I won’t comment on the tattoos. But, a tomboyish, mysterious rebel with a secret history and an insatiable urge to save the world, I am not. Sorry to disappoint.
But, I’m quite alright with that. Granted, I’d be lying my ass off if I said that I’ve never dreamed of stepping out of my apartment as if I’d just stepped out the pages of my favourite story. The first time I had someone tell me: “You look like a protagonist,” I nodded, thanked the stranger shyly, and then promptly scuttled off to mark the occasion by scribbling a couple dozen exclamation points in my journal. Perhaps someday, I could have a go at following my Female Fandom Formula. But I know I won’t be truly satisfied by writing a strong protagonist. I’d rather be one. I may be wearing worn out jeans, heels, and drugstore makeup, but if I’m going to face every challenge in my own story with grace, wit, and strength, I’d rather do so as myself. Sure, it may seem pointless to experience real-life situations worthy of fiction if we don’t behave as main characters would in our beloved page-turning stories. Those cliche Young Adult Novel covers may be intriguing, but perhaps there’s a reason none of their pictured characters have their entire face shown. A hero with no grounding, human qualities - who doesn’t have a favourite cereal, an ex lover they still care for, or palms that get sweaty right before handshakes with their boss, isn’t a truly complete person. Maybe that’s why the covers of dystopian novels can’t seem to display a girl’s full face.
According to my Great Works of British Literature professor, there are five different ways to open a novel. One could start with Dialogue: “a catchy piece of dialogue, (either spoken or internal,) that often conveys conflict. apparently. We could begin our future-best-seller with a Question. E.B. White did in Charlotte’ Web: “Where’s Papa going with that ax?” We could go with describing a “mood,” or a “setting.” Maybe a Philosophical Qualm. If you’re treating the people to a “Big Bang,” you’re either penning a subset of action., maybe guns, bombs, or murder. It’s often used in thrillers and murder-mysteries. Well, that, or you accidentally just opened PornHub and forgotten your laptop is connected to a projector.
We’re all characters constantly living out the unwritten words of the tales of our lives. New Year’s, in particular, is a time when we tend to think a lot about the stories we’re going to open 2019 with. As the clock struck midnight, we tell the tale of How Much We Actually Really Love Going Clubbing or of How We’ve Always Loved Stilettos More Than Sweatpants. The next morning, we’re going to tell the story of How We Got A Sixpack. Or of How We Stopped Wasting Our Time Watching Netflix. Or Stopped Drinking. Any day now, we’ll gather round the fireplaces no-one in New York City Has and tell the tale of How We Finally Walked Into Out Horrible Boss’s Office and Quit. Of How We Finally Got Over Him.
I’m definitely far from perfect at writing stories. But, as someone who took a final exam on literary techniques a mere week or so ago, I’m certainly qualified to mention my personal favourite method of opening a novel. “In medias res.” Plunging into the middle of a narrative; without preamble.
Shockingly, I love it most not just because it helps me feel intelligent when I almost microwave a plastic fork. It’s my favorite because “in medias res” is the way all the stories and chapters in our lives. Every new year, new job, new relationship, new apartment, or new attempt at “Living The Soul-Cycling, Organic-Banana-Buying Life” begins right in the midst of the larger frame narrative (hey professor!) of the tale of the protagonists we were all born as. As we first set foot on our college campus or take our first steps as man and wife, we’re the very same main characters, plunging into a new situation in which our past lives, habits, and experiences may not be on display. But, just like for that edgy 18 year old we meet in the midst of her fighting an post-apocalyptic dystopia, the past struggles and worries of our protagonists still exist.
I have nothing against starting the new year with a new story. I’m doing the same thing. I just don’t think we ought to feel obligated to start 2019 by being reborn. I think the last time that happened, we called the guy Jesus and decided to build a bunch of churches to worship him in. Talk about unrealistic societal standards. So, perhaps as we wash out our champagne flutes and set out our running shoes for tomorrow, it’s worth it to remind ourselves that we don’t have to reincarnate as a Future Valedictorian, Self-Care Guru, Love Expert, or Marathon Runner. If we start our next chapter as versions of our main characters that put some flashcards in our pockets, buy nice lotion sometimes, give a new date a chance, or walk around the park more. I like new stories too. But this protagonist is around to stay.
