Shitting in the Parking Lot; What Epic is Not

You don’t need to spend much time at the local greasy spoon on a Sunday morning before you hear a conversation like this:

“How was last night?”

“Dude, it was epic!

As a fantasy writer, I always perk up my ears at this sort of remark, eager to hear some tale of a massive struggle, one pitting heroes against gods in a contest on which the fate of humanity (or the nation, or at a bare minimum, the town of Brattleboro, Vermont, population 12,046) depends.

Instead, the account usually goes something likes this:

“Check it out – first we went to Skanky Ted’s, where Jimmy drank, like, fifteen beers in two hours. And there was this dude with, like, a fish tattoo, who kept looking at us, and Jimmy told him to fuck off. Then he hit on this totally drunk chick, but she slapped him across the face, and she told him to fuck off. I was seriously laughing my ass off. Then Jimmy was so wasted that he shat in the parking lot. Epic.”

The Iliad or Mahabharata this is not.

And let’s be clear – I’d never argue that the term “epic” can’t be used in conjunction with a party. Books 20, 21, and 22 of the Odyssey comprise a party. It’s a party in which a king is unveiled, a goddess shows up, one dude gets an arrow through the throat, over a hundred others are killed with swords and spears, and at least half a dozen servants are hung by the neck until dead. Afterward, Odysseus orders the place aired out to clear the stench of human offal, not because, you know, Sally puked on the pong table.

While I’m at it, the term “legend” also seems to have suffered a demotion. Joan of Arc – who single-handedly changed the course of the Hundred Years War, who claimed to speak with angels, and who burned at the stake for her convictions – was a legend. Genghis Khan was a legend. Martin Luther King and Buddha were legends. For better or worse, these folks twisted the fabric of the world, left it fundamentally altered.

Downing a thirty-rack of Busch Light and then hooking up with Jessie and her blond friend from the super-market checkout might be a fun way to spend an evening, but it’s hardly legendary.

Here, though, we come to an interesting point about the convergence of the epic and the legendary with the hum-drum and everyday. In the world of epic fantasy, the old terms retain much of their Homeric heft; we can usually expect gods and goddesses, world-begirdling conflicts, heroines and heroes of exceptional skill, brilliance, and wit wielding magical artifacts capable of turning people into toast, toast into people, and everything in between.

Therein lies a danger.

In the quest to write truly epic material, it’s easy to create characters whose concerns and motivations are so profound, so global in scope, so cosmic in their import, that those characters risk losing all humanity. We want the stakes to be high, but it’s hard to understand a character who thinks, “If I fail, all life on the four lands of Solmianis will perish in a great blaze of unfettered Chaos.” It’s not even clear that people, real people, are capable of considering their own actions in such abstract and universal terms.

The great fantasy writers realize this, of course. The climax of N.K. Jemisin’s The Killing Moon is nation-threatening in scope – truly epic – but hinges on a very private, intimate relationship: a student’s love for his teacher. Rob Stark, likewise, has a chance to defeat the Lannisters and unify Westeros, but the legend must bow to the boy when he falls in love. Caetlyn’s actions, too, though global in effect, stem from the utterly personal terrors and convictions of a mother fighting for her children.

And of course, there’s no finer union of the epic and the everyday than the climax of the The Lord of the Rings. By the end of the tale, Gollum has become entirely mired in his own petty greed, in a solipsism at once completely terrifying and utterly banal. There could be no less epic character than the horribly debased Smeagol, but from the basest and most basic of motives, motives with no end beyond his own immediate need, Gollum makes a choice that ramifies through an entire age. The epic springs, not from a noble knight atop a white steed contemplating the fate of humanity and the world, but from the grubby, unremarkable chambers of the private heart.

So, who am I to say? Stealing a golf cart and driving it into the Connecticut River doesn’t sound particularly epic, but then, you never know what cosmic scale hangs in the balance.

4 thoughts on “Shitting in the Parking Lot; What Epic is Not

  1. When I was a teenager, everything was always hanging in the balance. At least, until I was fourteen. Then I figured it out and realized I wasn’t as important as I thought I was. Misplaced intentions/aspiration- bad story. Typically. Great stuff, as always.

  2. Being that Brattleboro, VT is a particularly random, and somewhat obscure, location to reference, I find it reasonably safe to assume that you reside within, or at least near, its cozy confines which would bestow upon you the honor of being the closest random internet person I have had the pleasure of encountering. I live in Williamstown, VT, and I find it delightful to have crossed paths with someone so near to me if in fact you are.

    • Small world! Yeah, I’m down just outside of Brattleboro. Do you know the Geek Mountain State blog? I just discovered it. If you’re from VT and like fantasy, you might enjoy it…

      Cheers!
      Brian

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s