Some writers of the baby boom and gen-x cusp generation wrote some wonderful speculative fiction that moved people across generations, helping wounded and misunderstood kids and young adults feel seen. Men like Neil Gaiman and Joss Whedon seemed sensitive and likeable, and their audiences formed parasocial relationships with them without realizing these predators were the first introduction they had to wounded narcissts giving themselves over to sociopathic levels of selfishness. Hiding in plain sight. Two men who said the spectrum of their rape fantasies meant more than the safety of fans and colleagues whose only mistakes were to be dripping blood near them.
JK Rowling tells a lovely, complex story about a boy who lived that hides red flags in plain sight. Eventually her mask comes off, too. Another wounded narcissist who at some point made a mistake about transpeople, said it outloud, and now cannot say the words, “I’m sorry. I made a mistake. Let me make amends.” A billionaire who can have anything she wants, do whatever she wants, who can’t do that one simple thing that even the child version of her most popular character certainly could.
The worst traits of the Me Generation, wearing masks of empathy and sensitivity to hide their inner milkshake ducks that want nothing more than to eat the sensitivity of others. Vampires hiding as earthbound artist angels.
The hope is the knowing, though, that despite the material power they built, that they can’t hold up their masks forever. Eventually the monsters are always seen.
I was never drawn to works like Sandman and Harry Potter. I liked Buffy, but was bothered by Firefly. I could discuss their works and even see the craft. It made sense to me that they were popular. But something always signaled me that something was wrong in their worlds. In my mind’s eye there was a fundamental rot I could smell but couldn’t explain. I didn’t say anything when I was younger because I hadn’t yet learned to inhabit my confidence. And I didn’t say anything when their masks slipped off because I could see so many people pretending to have never loved their works in the first place, which sounded like other narcissists pretending they’re never wrong.
I loved Woody Allen’s essays, books and movies, another neurotic nerd who taught us that sensitive geeks are so loveable but who wore the same mask as those fantasy authors. I was fooled. I fooled myself. I ignored the smell because I loved to laugh so much. I haven’t watched Sweet and Lowdown in over a decade and never will again. The list of abandoned treasures is long. I refuse to seperate the art and the artist, because to do so gives aid and comfort to a man whose soul ate the soul of his own adopted children for his own sexual pleasure. And he told us who he was, in plain sight, in Manhattan. And people like me kidded ourselves and laughed at the funny pedophile we thought of as sophisticated.
Manhattan came out just a few years after Roman Polanski ran from the U.S. for what he did to a 13 year old girl. He’s still running all these decades later. A funny, sensitive artist whose beautiful wife was murdered by a cult. I missed what he did as a younger man and was enamoured with “Dance of the Vampires” and “Chinatown.” It wasn’t until I finally read the lurid stories of his predation that I saw it. In both movies, in all of his stories, the monsters who eat innocence win.
Chinatown’s central villain captures another child after destroying the daughter he ate. He gets away with it. The audience is told to forget it, there’s nothing we can do. Polanski himself commits the same crime just as the film is released, and gets away with it by running away. Another nebbish predator.
Someday, if I’m lucky, I’ll have people who love my work and people who hate it and people who are indifferent to it. And when those days come, I’ll be judged for my character. I have my flaws. I make mistakes.
But I don’t eat children. I don’t steal innocence. I love the sunshine. I’m not a vampire.
I’m the vampire hunter who laughs. I have the gift of seeing. I can walk in dark places safely, holding invisible lantern light on kite strings.
And finally, after all these years, I trust what I see. I’m looking forward to roaming the land, encouraging hobbits to be their best selves. Today, I get to spend vast amounts of time in Sterling, the supreme cathedral of knowledge, and luxuriate in the angel hum I feel when I touch the stone walls.
And I’m grateful.