WIP: Doctor Fantastik

If you’re familiar with C.S. Lewis’ Chronicles of Narnia, you may know what I’m quoting in the title. In the final book of the series, The Last Battle, there is a group of dwarves who believe in their cause so strongly that they cannot perceive reality. There are multiple interpretations of the dwarves, particularly given how prone to Christian allegory Lewis’s work is, but I think they hold a lesson for those of us witnessing and/or participating in arguments on the Internet.

Here’s the thing. Everyone believes their own worldview. It may not totally jibe with the one they project to the world, a la Stephen Colbert. But deep inside, everyone is the champion in their own narrative, or at least that’s the impression that everyone I’ve ever met or read about gives me.

And because they’re the main character in their story, people like to believe that they are good or at least mostly good. But that definition of good can vary wildly from individual to individual. It often is a combination of definitions associated with a particular religion along with whatever personal modifications one requires. Their attitude and behavior toward other beings are shaped by those definitions.

So, the dwarves are being good according to their own dwarvish standards, which, depending on our own internal definitions may or may not seem incorrect to us. That’s worth taking a moment to think about.

It’s a point that often gets overlooked, particularly in arguments on the Internet. As is an accompanying point, that in arguments it is much more common for every participant to believe themselves fully in the right than it is for any of them to believe themselves in the wrong.

Am I saying bad faith arguments are never made, that no one enjoys playing devil’s advocate or creating an elaborate chain of logic one could slip around an opponent’s neck? No, those exist but should be saved for another time. What I’d like to focus on is how one person who’s convinced they’re right can listen to another person who is also convinced that they’re right and end up at a meaningful conversation.

We get angry when people disagree with us. We become defensive when we feel we are under attack. That is a normal response that goes back to our early days of being human. But one of the cool things about human beings is that we can recognize that impulse in ourselves, and take it into account, and then move on to a more considered response which by no coincidence is usually a more courteous response.

To me, part of my definition of being good is questioning assumptions as well as what I’m told by my surroundings, particularly popular culture, and my own biases and filters. It seems to me more meaningful to be good in a way that I know to be correct because I have spent time thinking about it than to accept a definition pre-created for me. I can conceive of a world view, however, where that is not true.

And part of that definition is being willing to listen, to try to find common ground and agreement. To take a little time for give and take, rather than worrying about who’s the most rightest of all. Passionate anger can be a great motivator. But what it’s best at is creating more passionate anger.

Am I saying I am never offended ever? Holy smokies, no. But I am saying that I try to be willing to listen. That I try to extend the person I am listening to the courtesy of assuming they speak in good faith. If they don’t, eventually that will come out, at least in my opinion. Yes, I may feel that they should be listening to me first and that viewpoint may be justified. But what is more important, being right or achieving communication that may enable change of that worldview, or even mine?

I’m aware mileage as far as agreement goes will vary wildly among readers of this blog. And I will save how one reacts to bad faith arguments for some other post. But to me, operating by these guidelines is more effective than not, and gives me the satisfaction of knowing that at least I tried.

Here’s another chunk from “A New Board is Elected at Villa Encantada,” (working title) a darkly humorous story about a very odd condo complex that I’ve written several stories about already. It’s been fun filling out the complex’s roster a little in this story, and I’m going back to revise one of the unpublished ones with some of these details. Like the talking cacti.

Even the cacti garden was talking about the assessment. I usually don’t visit down there, in the little rock garden near the lake. For one thing all of the cacti like to talk at once. They ramble and they repeat and they are altogether too fond of puns. Not for the first time, I wondered what exactly the magician who had created them had had in mind. Had it really been a dozen cranky plants, whose extreme longevity led them to be highly opinionated about everything?

There are twelve cacti altogether, eleven in pots and one who has chosen to plant itself and grow. The eleven in pots have opted for mobility over size. They were fond of making Rumpelstiltskin wheel them about the complex in order to enjoy the sun and fresh air.

Each was distinctive, both in personality and appearance. They had names, which usually mattered only to each other. I had mentally bestowed nicknames on them: Bombast, Furor, Humblepie, Obscuro, Smarmy, Weasel, Johnny Nonsense, Earnest, Hairyfoot, Splainer, and the unpotted Old Dignity, a massive saguaro towering a good fifteen feet over its much shorter, hideously root bound, compatriots.

Bombast said, “It’s a cabal! They’ve been waiting to seize power for years now, and rob our reserves, turn us over to some real estate agent so the complex can be demolished for a high rise.”

Furor said, “Don’t be ridiculous. They’re not organized enough to be a cabal. And this place isn’t zoned for high-rises.” It added, its tone dark, “No, what they have in store for us is much, much worse.”

“How can they hope to understand the history of the complex?” demanded Hairyfoot. “Most of them haven’t even been here a decade.”

I considered them. The complex was odd at the best of times. It was a refuge, a complex that didn’t mind people who were outside the ordinary. That led to a population that was more mixed than most, including the denizens of this garden.

Earnest said to me, “Did you give your proxy to someone to vote?”

I shook my head and fled.

Rumpelstiltskin was by the dumpster, sorting out recyclables. He looked wretched and smudgy as an old sheet of newsprint. As I passed, he looked up, and said, hopefully, “What’s my name?”

“Not today,” I said. “You won’t escape today.”

I felt guilty at the look on his face, and the situation made me itch, but it’s been so hard to find a maintenance man here that I could understand why they had done it. Sometimes when you find good help, you have to rely on the laws of magic to keep them from leaving. Unscrupulous? Yes, undoubtedly. But the needs of the many outweigh those of the few. Or the one, in his case.

If you want to read the rest of the story, you can get it, along with at least six other stories, at the end of July by signing up to sponsor me in the Clarion West Write-a-thon. Even a small donation entitles you to the stories, so please do sign up!