| 1:11 AM PDT, September 30, 2008 | |
The
closest I've ever come to basing fiction on reality happened some years
ago, when I participated in a collaborative fantasy tale on a
now-defunct forum. The other writers were so incredibly good--I've never
seen such varied talent assembled in such quantity before or
since -- that it was a privilege to join them. I contributed a storybook
princess who embodied the most predictable features of the
quintessential Mary Sue.
Stunning good looks, a quick way with a sword, a deft hand with
Rachmaninoff...she could have easily been insufferable, had it not been
for her constant run of abysmally bad luck. I remember it being said
that people felt too sorry for her to hate her.
What I
most liked about my princess was getting the chance to be her. She was
not demonstrative, but she felt deeply. She loved beauty. She was gentle
and generous and brave. She could no more betray a confidence than she
could lay bare the secrets of her heart -- an obstinacy not conducive to
happy endings.
CK
CK
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