Balsa Wood and Zombies

I gave the Eleanor Roosevelt story to a friend to read, and she was absolutely horrified by it on a very visceral level, which on the one hand made me feel awful since I would never dream of hurting her or making her feel violated, and apparently, I’d done both; but, on the other hand, was gratifying since it was such a strong reaction, and her feelings about the characters were exactly what I would wish them to be: antipathy toward the monstrously self-involved protagonist who grows up to be Alice Roosevelt Longworth and stricken compassion for poor Nell who grows up to be Eleanor Roosevelt.

I felt very, very badly about subjecting her to the experience, though.

And wondered how this flimsy thing constructed out of the balsa wood and tissue paper of my own feeble imagination could possibly be that strong.

It hit a target at the right angle, I guess.

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The only two other people who’ve read the story are Little Megan, the consummate Southern California sorority girl, who stayed up till two in the morning reading it one night and told me the next morning she loved it, and B who obstinately refused to line-edit beyond telling me that the ending was a cheap trick and that it ought to be called The Science of Spectropia.

So, I was definitely unprepared for my friend's reaction.

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One of the things my friend asked me was how a compassionate person like me could possibly write such an uncompassionate story.

This is kind of an interesting twist on the old paradox: How did Richard Wagner write such beautiful operas? How did T.S. Eliot write such profound poetry? How do bad people make great art?

And conversely, how can a good piece of art depict a very bad thing?

Not that I’m making any claims that the Eleanor Roosevelt story is a piece of art, mind you.

But I guess it is successful as a horror story. Which is what I set out to write.

I think the deal with most horror these days is that it’s not actually horrible. It’s filled with memes—zombies! oooooh! Cthulu! ahhhhhh!—and therefore has all the punch of a ride on a rollercoaster. Yes, terrifying! But you know perfectly well you’re safe.

And this particular story wanders off that safe path.

Anyway, I do feel very badly that my friend was so horrified.

So badly, in fact, that I’ve completely forgotten whatever it was I did yesterday.