Hocus Focus
Dear Rexagon,
I’m starting to think the Harry Potter books aren’t very realistic.
Not all the magic and wizardry, of course! That stuff is great. Flying brooms and spells and incantations are the fun parts.
I’m talking about Harry’s mental state. It just doesn’t make sense.
Dead parents. Thrust into a hard-knock, hardcore orphan life. Awful relatives make him sleep in a closet. Give him no love.
My point: He’d be a straight up-psycho! His mind a bubbling cauldron of emotional demons.
And yet he seems pretty pleasant, right? Helps out his friends, and generally seeks to do right.
Feels highly unlikely.
Why couldn’t those stories be more real-life accurate?
Signed,
Worrying About Nerdy Details
Dear WAND,
There’s a term we use in the arts that may be outside your purview.
That wondrous phrase: “artistic license.”
Allow me to introduce you to the concept!
Storytellers and creative people may alter facts, and/or fictionalize elements to enhance the overall narrative.
Not many people want to see Travis Bickle in Gryffindor, do they?
The artist, however, is not alone in this creative process.
You too play a special part!
In your magic bag, you carry the stardust of amazement. The cherries on top of the pineapple upside-down cake!!
This sage element is called: “suspension of disbelief.”
I guarantee we don’t ask for it lightly. We seek to earn it!
Analysis and skepticism? A sign of a keen mind, true.
But time and place, good sir.
We seek only to entertain you!
Make no mistake: art should be taken seriously. Many times I’ve heard “Why are you crying?” followed by “It’s only a movie.”
To me, that is unfathomable.
For stories are real! Quite intangible, yes. Certainly lacking in corporeal form.
But if it makes you cry real tears — then wasn’t it (in some way) real?
I would argue yes.
Although I do fear we’ve now gone too far afield.
In closing: the appreciation of art is not a competition between you and the artist.
I wish you well in the land of fiction.
Counterpoint commentary by …
Frieda Looke, the Tattooed Lady
I am a jogger. I recently ran my first half-marathon.
My time was two hours and fifty-one minutes.
In crossing the finish line, I felt mostly relief. As sense of joy born not of success, but more the fact that I didn’t fail. I went out and ran the whole thing.
Prior to starting, I feared I’d let myself down.
In hindsight, I realize it was a great achievement. Not to brag, but I’m proud of myself.
I have a successful career as an entertainer, and now I complete races.
A far cry from my humble beginnings.
Growing up, my bedroom was a linen closet with a cot in it.
And I did not get time off to go live in a castle. No kindly headmaster ever cared or mentored me.
The human spirit is resilient.
I know of what I speak. Trauma and pain take their toll. Yet I always found a reason to believe.
In the hope of better days.
My training steadily continues; I plan to cross the finish line in a full marathon within the next year.
