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Tag: dystopian

On Dystopias

I can’t help it.
I analyze books.

It may have
started out as an intentional thing, but these days, I can’t help but pick
stories apart. I used to think such a habit would ruin the pleasure of reading,
yet I’ve found that, for me, it only adds to the experience. With most books I
sink into, I automatically look for what works, what doesn’t work, why
something does what it does. Why do I love this character? Why does this other
one fall flat? Why does the pacing feel off? What made that plot twist so
incredibly surprising?

Not only do I
find myself studying books, I find myself studying genres, too. What makes me
love fantasy so much? Why is dystopian so popular? I look at the categories
from my own personal viewpoint as a reader, and also try to see it from the
perspective of a wide audience.

I don’t know—maybe
it’s the writer in me.

 

I was thinking
about dystopias the other day. I’d just finished Allegiant (OH MY GOODNESS I
HAVE NO WORDS) and thoughts on the ending led me down a broken concrete trail
to the idea of dystopias in general. I don’t know if it’s coming or going, that
trend, but it has produced some insanely popular stuff. The Hunger Games,
Divergent, The Maze Runner,
etc.

So what’s the
appeal?

I’m sure that
answer is as multi-faceted as the genre’s readers. But a whole lot of the fans
are teens. And maybe all those teens identify with Katniss, who’s forced into
something she never wanted. Who can’t trust those in authority, or even the
friends around her. Maybe we readers see Tris, struggling with identity and a
choice that will determine her entire future, and we feel, “Yeah, that’s me
too.” We watch Thomas try desperately to figure out where the blazes he is, and
who put him there, and what he’s supposed to do . . . and those questions
resonate.

Because those
are our questions.

“What am I going
to do with my life?”

“What will I
choose?”

“Who can I
trust?”

“Why am I here?”
We reach for
independence, sometimes too quickly, and strain against the bonds of childhood.
The fictional cast of characters strives to break the bonds of a despotic government.

We see myriad
choices—big ones—looming in our futures, and we wonder, doubt, panic, analyze,
dream. The characters’ big choices mirror our own, but in a warped mirror that
expands and extrapolates those decisions. A city rests on the choice; lives depend
on the action taken.

We look around
at our world, the dimensions of which have suddenly exploded, and we feel
increasingly small. The characters peel back layers of story and discover all
is not as they once thought.

This relevance
can be true of any story, any genre. These tales echo in the chambers of our hearts
because on a certain plane, they are real. They are our very own
stories, played out with different names, different locations, different
circumstances . . . yet with all too familiar themes.


And so when
Katniss fires a well-aimed arrow, we cheer. When Tris faces her deepest fears,
we pump our fists. The victories of these characters help us realize, “I can
too.”

In a
progressively secluded society, where we can so easily hide behind screens, it
is even easier to feel that we are alone in our struggles. That we must be the
only ones going through this. In books we find companions with whom we
empathize. A poor substitute for real friendship, I suppose, but nonetheless
encouraging. Somebody else out there feels the way I feel. They are facing
worse, and yet they still get up in the morning, they still press on. They lose
and fail and shatter into a million pieces, but they put themselves back together
. . . and they make it.

I can too.

Herein lies one
of the mysterious powers of story—to use an untruth to reveal truth. To use
fiction to shed light on reality. Through fabricated hardships, a story
comforts us in our trials, and inspires us with the courage to walk through to
the other side as a stronger person.

Yes, dystopias
feed on the fears of today and paint grim pictures of tomorrow; of a fallen
race, a broken planet, a corrupted government. Yes, dystopian authors sometimes
write with a societal or environmental critique in mind.

But under the
agendas, we might find sparks to feed our own dying flames. In the bleak
landscapes, we can rediscover hope. And that, I think, is the reason we are so enraptured with these fractured tales.