Growing Older doesn't have to mean Growing Up

When I was really young the summers went on forever. I know it's a cliché but it's true. Every day seemed an age and I spent it playing outside with friends with nothing to be concerned about apart from the tongue-lashing I'd get from my mother if I was late home for dinner.

No cares. No worries. No problems.

If I wasn't running around I was usually curled up somewhere reading, creating mental pictures of tales that could never come true. My own imagination filled in the gaps between the words on the page, making them even more lifelike. I wanted the stories to be real, to live them myself. Of course, when I was really little it was fairy tales, first told to my by my dad but later I learned to read them on my own. And then came adventure stories. Explorers in far-flung places, even outer space. Nothing was impossible if only I could suspend belief for a while.

Of course when I became an adult all that changed. Life tends to get in the way of fun. I hardly had time for reading anything beyond the newspaper stories of war and economic downturn. I had work to do, bills to pay, domestic problems to tend to. I used to think that videogames were time-thieves but they're nothing compared to housework.

Sometimes I'm asked, "How come you go to Disney so often?" The person asking usually says it as if it's wrong for me to do so. As is it's wrong to want to leave the stress of work and a busy life behind or to return, albeit temporarily, to the days when I didn't have to be so responsible.

For many of us the park, be it in California or Florida, is in a sunnier climate than we see at home. It's an echo of the long, hot summers of out youth, whatever decade those years were in. We can play outside all day long without fear. Nobody even calls us in for our meals.

And the things I loved when I was little? The playing outside, the stories? They're all here all under one great big-sky roof. I loved them as a kid and, if I allow myself to, I can love them as an adult too. As Walt Disney himself said, "Adults are only kids grown up, anyway."

On top of this there are the characters, those walking representations of the mice, bears, chipmunks etc. that previously only existed on screen and comic books. Meeting them is like reuniting with old friends that we might not have seen since our childhood but with none of those awkward "will they still remember me" moments. The characters don’t care about the things you hate about yourself. They don't judge. They love unconditionally, even those who are supposed to be villains. At the Disney parks you leave your outside self behind.

Many of us get to take our children with us back into our memories and - crucially - they love being there just as much as we do. Thankfully we don't have to resort to the sad old clichés about how good things were "in my day" for once, because they're just as good now. That awful generation gap is removed. Sure, we may be drawn to different activities within the park but we're all there together, young and old. Whether the Princess of your formative years was Cinderella, Ariel or even Anna and Elsa, you'll be catered for. It's about shared experiences. Shared cultural references. Shared fun. Being in the parks brings out the sense of belonging that we all need. Everyone who passes under the entrance railway tunnel and on to Main Street is of the same tribe, one extended Disney family. Hopefully it's a place we're all a little more tolerant, a little kinder than we might be at home with very few voices of dissent.

The so-called important stuff of our usual lives can be put on hold for the few days or so that we're in the parks. Whether you're an annual pass-carrying local, someone who has saved for years for that once in a lifetime trip across the country or even a foreign writer who fell in love with this most American of American dreams, being in a Disney park can recharge our batteries safe in the knowledge that, if Walt Disney and his successors can create such magic here then maybe, just maybe, we can take a little bit of it home with us to make our lives and that of those we come into contact with a bit better. Pixie dust has a habit of hanging around.

Shaun Finnie is a writer from England. He has written several Disney books and articles and visits the theme parks as often as he can - which isn't nearly as often as he'd like.

More details at www.shaunfinnie.com

Who Is the Fairest of Them All?

Regular readers will know that I have a thing about cover bands, remakes and reimagineering. Is it better to have an original idea that nobody else cares about or is it perfectly acceptable to take a well established brand / song / work of art and put your own personal mark on it? I'm still not sure how I feel about the entire subject - though I'm leaning towards looking at each case on its individual merits - but I'd like to look at a new variant on that theme.

When I was a kid there was very little that I liked more than spaghetti hoops on toast, playing with my Hot Wheels cars and reading Spider-Man comics. But one thing that always went straight to the top of my excitement list was the release of a new animated Disney film. Or, in our case, a relatively old animated Disney film as at the time English cinemas didn't show them until at least six months after their American release. The vibrant colours, the simple storylines of good conquering evil, the funny characters - what kid could ask for more?

Those films (some of which were decades old rereleases even when I saw them for the first time) still work their magic on today's children but are most likely viewed at home on television systems not much smaller than the silver screens on which the kids' grandparents originally watched them. They're still fun but they are definitely films of a different era, made for a different generation. The movies themselves haven't changed but the people watching them have. I'm not getting into the pros and cons of whether this is a good thing or not but it's undoubted that the average pre-teen today is most definitely more self-aware, sarcastic, confident and worldly wise than their equivalents from a few generations ago. Some of the more innocent portions of those fairy tale movies don't necessarily meet with the same response now as they did in those halcyon days of old.

That's why, unlike some, I'm not in the least troubled by the reimagineered, darker and post-modern take of 'Alice in Wonderland' or the 'Sleeping Beauty' update, 'Maleficent'. The slapstick buffoonery of Glenn Close's 'One Hundred and One Dalmatians' was fun, and was intended to be just that. These works stand on their own, for the viewer to take or leave, and shouldn't leave any black mark against the memory of the wonderful  animated classics. Some have been dismayed by Disney 'changing' their original favourites  by releasing these as if in some way Angelina Jolie's Maleficent demeans Marc Davis's stunning artwork of the original dark fairy. Of course it doesn't, any more than Dolly Parton or Pat Boone's covers of 'Stairway to Heaven' in any way detract from the Led Zeppelin classic.

I wish Disney good luck with their upcoming live action remakes of 'Cinderella', 'Beauty and the Beast' and 'The Jungle Book' (again). There will be a market for them. I might even like them myself. Or I might not.  As with everything in life (as long as it's legal), if you don't like it then you don't have to partake.

And if you're still unconvinced then you can always rewatch the old videos / blu-rays / DVDs / home movies any time you wish. I certainly do, quite regularly. A dream can still be a wish your heart makes - if you want it to be.

© Shaun Finnie 2014

How Close To The Edge?

I've never been a dedicated follower of fashion. Even less, a trend setter. I wear what's comfortable. I go to places that I like, not those that the in-crowd say I should be seen at. I listen to music that makes me feel good and most of that was, and to me still is, from the seventies and eighties. What can I say, I'm old. Live with it - I have to.

In common with many Englishmen of my age, much of the music that I listened to in my youth could loosely be termed as 'Prog Rock'. For those too young to remember, Prog is the kind of music  played by long haired virtuosi in kaftans. The songs themselves are long (maybe twenty minutes or so each), and often with extended instrumental passages. When the lyrics do come in they are often about wizards, fairies and saving whales . It isn't easy listening by any stretch but I love it.

One of Prog's greatest groups is Yes, who have been around since 1968 and are still touring and recording. That's a long time for one group to have stayed together and in truth they haven't really. They've gone through more line-up changes than a Champions League football team who are seven-nil up after the away leg. To date they've had four singers, four guitarists, three drummers and seven different keyboard players - one of whom was the son of an earlier keyboardist. It all gets very confusing.

But after all these changes can they really still be called Yes? Many fans will refer to a 'classic' line-up of the band that recorded several of their bigger selling albums but does financial success equal artistic merit? Are these popular works the only ones that 'count'? They have a new album out this month. There are only three members from that most popular iteration of Yes on the new recording. Does that make it less Yes?  Some fans think so. Some think that they should change their name, that they've become their own tribute band. Some actually think that to continue working with different members does a disservice to those who have 

gone through their ranks before.

I don't get that line of thinking. I don't see how the work that someone does today should have any 

retrospective influence whatsoever on their previous work. If I write a short story or a novel featuring characters from a previous work, does that somehow invalidate my previous writing? If a novelist makes a name for themselves writing heavy political thrillers and then suddenly comes up with a best-selling piece of romantic fluff then are those previous works less worthy?

As I said at the start, I've never been a follower of fashion. I say let the artist work how they want. If you like their stuff, give it your patronage. If not then move on to something that you like better. The older stuff is still there for you to enjoy any time you like.

Negativity usually says more about the speaker than their target.

Too Much Too Young

I've often heard the 'fact' repeated that there are more people alive today than have ever lived and died since the beginning of time. Ever. I've read it on the internet too so it must be right, right?

I used that self-same internet to check it out (I know; the irony) and guess what I found? It's a total fabrication. Depending on your view of the beginning of time and what constitutes a human being (and please don't go all creationist on me here) there have been anywhere between seven and thirty people lived and died for every one person alive today. So that's one 'fact' debunked. My good deed for the day. Next week I'll take on fraudulent psychics (i.e. all of them) and those who believe England will win the World Cup.

But I did find one quite staggering fact while I was reading. I think that it will surprise and maybe even shock you too. Brace yourself, here it is.

In my lifetime the world's population has doubled.

I'll give you a moment for that one to sink in. It's doubled. Twice as many. One plus one equals four. That could possibly be understandable if the rise had been from say five hundred to a thousand. A net figure of five hundred more people alive would be pretty reasonable to me, but the real number is a bit bigger than that.

When I was born among the dinosaurs in the mid 'sixties there were just over three billion people alive worldwide. Now there are seven and a quarter billion, give or take a few who hid under the bed when the census taker came to call. And every single one of them needs feeding. And a roof over their head. And needs their waste disposing of, in whatever form that might take.

Many people think that this mass population increase isn't sustainable and that someday soon we'll cross over some kind of tipping point. We'll run out of places to live or to grow our food. Or we'll poison our home world. Or blow it up. Or change the weather so drastically that the earth becomes totally uninhabitable. Any way you look at it, we're doomed. Aren't we?

Well not necessarily. Not everybody is so sure that breeding more people is such a bad thing. Some say that a stranger is just a friend that they haven't met yet. Me? I say that a stranger is someone to whom I have yet to sell any of my books. If even a small percentage of those three and a quarter billion - and the figure has increased by around three thousand since I started writing this piece - bought one of my books then I'd be a very rich man indeed.

Can anyone recommend a good translation service?

© Shaun Finnie 2014

Ticka-Ticka-Ticka

When you're six years old the summer holidays stretch forever. By the time you reach thirty they seem to be over before you've even had time to change out of your work clothes. It's one of the rules of time that you have more of it when you're young. It also changes speed depending on how much time you need.

The ancient Roman poet Virgil described this phenomenon first when he said, "All our sweetest hours fly fastest." J. K. Rowling, in one of the 'Harry Potter' books, wrote, "When you are dreading something, and would give anything to slow down time, it has a disobliging habit of speeding up." And David Bowie said that it was flexible in much more basic terms in his song, 'Time'.

I recently went boating and among the crew was a young boy, aged ten. He asked me what the time was and then, about fifteen minutes later, asked again. And again, after about thirty minutes more had passed. This went on for a few hours until curiosity (and a bit of annoyance) got the better of me.

'Why do you keep checking the time so frequently?' I asked him.

He looked at me, all innocence, and answered, ' Because I can't believe how slowly time goes on a boat.'

He's right, of course. When you're on the water without the hustle and bustle of 'normal' life to distract you then you take the chance to wind down, to breathe more deeply and appreciate the world around you. It's the same if you take a walk through a forest or any other natural place. The earth; the sky; the sea: getting closer to any of these elemental forces makes time slow down, or at least it appears to. But not that fourth natural element, fire. Getting close to that makes things happen very quickly indeed.

I've found that the so-called-constant time varies in my working life too. If, for instance, I'm just working on something that I plan to send off on spec somewhere, with no firm offer of payment and no deadline, then I can rattle it off in what seems like no time at all. The work is easy and I end up having plenty of time to check Facebook and play Candy Crush at the same time.

If, however, I'm up against a deadline and have, say, two hours left to produce an article then I'm always astounded at how short that time becomes. By the time I've booted the machine, had a coffee or two, checked my emails, had a game of Candy Crush, adjusted my chair for the third time of the day and been to the toilet for some much-needed ponderence time those two hours have been whittled down to about twenty minutes.

I think Zall's Second Law probably sums it up the best. "How long a minute is, depends on which side of the bathroom door you're on."

© Shaun Finnie 2014

Hanging By a Thread

I'm getting a bit tired of watching a big budget, usually American, television series for around twenty weeks only to find a great big cliff-hanger at the end. You know the sort. The hero's been chasing the bad guy for the best part of half a year and they finally meet up, guns pointed at each other as they stand in some gloomy shed they talk at length, tying up all the season's loose ends. We know who did what to whom and, however implausible it may seem, how they did it. The only thing that we need to know now is how this standoff will end.

Cut to the outside of the shed. Suddenly the entire building erupts in an immense ball of flame. Who lived? Who died? Cue titles and someone with a Geordie accent saying "And you can find out what happened when we show the next series in the New Year."

What? I invested twenty-odd weeks of my life and a good chunk of my Sky+ box hard drive in the series for that? They made me care about these people that don't really exist and I have to wait half a year to find out if they survive? That's if the series isn't cancelled and they're left in some kind of fictional limbo like 'Sapphire and Steel' or Sam from 'Quantum Leap'. It's just not on.

That kind of thing works fine for the end of a single episode though in the same way that the old black and white serial films used to end each short installment. "How will Flash Gordon escape the villainous Emperor Ming? Find out next week." And it's fine in comics too. It's quite acceptable to finish an issue with the Green Goblin knocking Spider-Man out and throwing him off the top of the Empire State Building. Will Spidey come round in time before he goes bug splat? Probably, yes. My guess is that the Human Torch will fly in and catch him. Again.

But when did you ever get to the end of a four-hundred page novel only to read, 'To be continued in the sequel. Available from all good booksellers next year'? I can't see any good publisher letting that go. Even most of the Kindle 99p authors balk at that. A fiction book has to have a beginning, a middle and, crucially, an ending. Even if its part of a series of linked stories it should also work as a standalone piece on its own. Grab any Sherlock Holmes tale for example and you have everything that you need to know about the great detective in that self-contained piece. The same with Miss Marple or Poirot.

There are exceptions - Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter - but they're few and far between. And even they tie up most of the threads in each volume. It seems that television drama is the only form of entertainment media where it's become accepted and expected for the consumer to wait for the story to continue. Am I alone in thinking that this is wrong?

So in closing I'd like to pass on something that I've learned from all my years of writing. The secret of writing a good cliff-hanger is -

© Shaun Finnie 2014

Don't Get Comfy

Language evolves and grows. It changes with each generation that uses it. And that's quite right, that's how it should be. Most of the time.

When I was a kid there was no such thing as a "comfort zone" to step outside of. The closest thing I had to a comfort zone in those pre-computer, black and white, no private transport or inside toilet days was my granny's sofa, a big black and red leather number. I spent more pleasant times curled up on that sofa with a pile of good (and an even bigger pile of bad) books than I care to remember. Happy days, yes, but I wouldn't have described it as a comfort zone.

Fast forward… er… several years to today and I'm a much more rounded individual, in just about every way. So it's time to get off my backside. It's time to do some exercise. It's time to do something that I would never normally think of doing. To step out of my comfort zone, if you will.

It's time to volunteer to work with under-tens in a school garden.

The Beloved has been working there  for quite a while now and had asked if I would like to join her occasionally in guiding a class of thirty or so children in the gentle arts of planting, weeding and growing their own vegetables. Now I personally have no love of physical work, gardening or (whisper it) children really but honestly, how hard could it be?

Who would have thought that the answer would be "exhausting and like herding cats"? Bless them, the little loves were, I'm reliably told, much better behaved than usual but they were still more than a handful for me. Even organising a relay of kids with watering cans from tap to newly-planted pumpkins was chaotic.

"Thank you, but that's a strawberry, not a pumpkin. It's already been watered three times."

"Sky, does Taylor really look like he needs watering?"

"Are you really part of this gardening group? I know this looks more fun but shouldn't you be in class instead?"

We thought that we'd explained how food grows from seeds quite well until one little lad asked the brilliant question, "So are we growing jacket roast potatoes?"  I think he missed the interim 'cooking' section. They were all energetic and willing, I'll give them that, and quite well mannered too. None of them were rude and they generally listened to everything we said, even if it did sometimes go straight in one ear and out the other. I got called "Shaun", "Sir", "that big man" and (on one memorable occasion) "hey, you!" That particular little girl will go far.

I have no idea how parents of large families cope. My proverbial cap is most certainly doffed in your direction. But I'm still not going back next week.

© Shaun Finnie 2014