This Is Not Just About Emo Kids

I've noticed a tendency to glorify angst. It's something that that writers do, that artists do, that important people thinking important things do. Depressing is considered more valid, more important, more meaningful than uplifting.

This is bullshit.

Misery is important, and valuable, and educational. There are things that you will never understand if you haven't been truly, honestly miserable at least once in your life.

But it's not profound. It doesn't make you a better person. It doesn't make you a more interesting person. It's not some rarefied state that the masses, in their happy ignorance, cannot hope to comprehend.

Misery is easy. Happiness is hard.

This Feels Like A Manifesto

I don't use the phrase "spitting mad" nearly enough.

It's not like I don't have occasion to. Take this Livejournal entry. A fairly typical demonstration of female objectification, notable primarily for the excellence of the visual aids, and the obtuseness of the commentary. Spit-inducing enough in its own right.

But scroll ye down to the comments section. Therein, you will find similarly familiar responses--and the inevitable admonition that we're all taking this too seriously, because it's "just fiction."

Excuse me? When did you join the human race?

I run into this every single day. Not just in a context of feminism--everywhere.

"It's just fiction."

"It's not important."

"It's not real."

"It's just art."

"Spend your time doing something important."

Well, sorry, but fiction is important. Stories are important.

Art is important.