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soc_puppetWe're supposed to write a one-page essay on a modern child's hero for Culture and Technology, as inspired by Thomas De Zengotita's Mediated. Except I really hate the book, as every time I read it I feel like the author is trying to force-feed me bullshit, complete with spoon and nose-pinching. (I, in turn, spit it back in his face. Gimme back my strained carrots!) So instead, have an essay on why Mark Twain/Samuel Clemens is -not- actually my hero, and was never really my hero in the first place!
When I was a kid, I found out I had a number of things in common with Samuel Clemens - that is, with Mark Twain. I found out that, not only did we share a birthday, but astrological phenomena: we were both born in the "year of the comet," and I was, at the time, beginning to foster the notion of becoming a writer myself. After all, I loved reading, and what could be better than to give others the same joy I found by giving them books themselves?
Of course, later in life I got a chance to read some more of Twain/Clemens' work. (I say this not meaning it entirely literally. I've never technically read anything of his myself, but my family has always listened to books on tape over long car trips - and even shorter ones. So, long ago, when we went to visit "Mark Twain's Cave," we listened to The Adventures of Tom Sawyer on the way. I barely remember any of it, and probably understood even less.) Since Dad was unable to dig up any of Mr. Twain/Clemens' fiction on tape for a recent car trip, he picked up some non-fiction instead: something about being the pilot of a riverboat on the Big Muddy back when it Meant Something. Thing was, the more I listened to, the more I hated the author's self-acknowledged self-aggrandizing and self-absorbed writing style.
I'd actually begun to question America's hero-worship of the man some time before, but this sold me: no matter how much we might have "shared" (surprisingly little, now that I look back on it), I did not like Samuel Clemens/Mark Twain, and was of the opinion that his books could go hang.
The real irony here, of course, would be if it were he who first spurned me into writing, leading to my discovery of my own love for it (the control freak in me, perhaps?). Thankfully, this I can instead blame on cartoons [read: fanfiction], proving that, while reality can be stranger than fiction, it can also be more palatable.
...I think that may have come off more sourly than I intended it to. Oh, well! Gotta have fun with classwork sometimes, yanno?
I am totally blaming my mood on hormones when I feel better. I swear.
When I was a kid, I found out I had a number of things in common with Samuel Clemens - that is, with Mark Twain. I found out that, not only did we share a birthday, but astrological phenomena: we were both born in the "year of the comet," and I was, at the time, beginning to foster the notion of becoming a writer myself. After all, I loved reading, and what could be better than to give others the same joy I found by giving them books themselves?
Of course, later in life I got a chance to read some more of Twain/Clemens' work. (I say this not meaning it entirely literally. I've never technically read anything of his myself, but my family has always listened to books on tape over long car trips - and even shorter ones. So, long ago, when we went to visit "Mark Twain's Cave," we listened to The Adventures of Tom Sawyer on the way. I barely remember any of it, and probably understood even less.) Since Dad was unable to dig up any of Mr. Twain/Clemens' fiction on tape for a recent car trip, he picked up some non-fiction instead: something about being the pilot of a riverboat on the Big Muddy back when it Meant Something. Thing was, the more I listened to, the more I hated the author's self-acknowledged self-aggrandizing and self-absorbed writing style.
I'd actually begun to question America's hero-worship of the man some time before, but this sold me: no matter how much we might have "shared" (surprisingly little, now that I look back on it), I did not like Samuel Clemens/Mark Twain, and was of the opinion that his books could go hang.
The real irony here, of course, would be if it were he who first spurned me into writing, leading to my discovery of my own love for it (the control freak in me, perhaps?). Thankfully, this I can instead blame on cartoons [read: fanfiction], proving that, while reality can be stranger than fiction, it can also be more palatable.
...I think that may have come off more sourly than I intended it to. Oh, well! Gotta have fun with classwork sometimes, yanno?
I am totally blaming my mood on hormones when I feel better. I swear.
