Don't Tell Me How It All Started: An Origin can Weaken your Story and Argument

Every time an artwork, article, discourse, movie, play or whatever explores how a certain character trait or problem has emerged, I feel that it is diminished, dismissed, or explained into insignificance. Sure, it is useful to know the causal origins of certain things so that if your neighbour feels unpleasant after having stood on his head for too long you won't make the same mistake, but many things cannot be so readily explained by their genesis. Magneto's distrust of ordinary humans in the X-Men movies is a perfectly adequate response to being different, as is his sometimes isolationist politics that mirrors that of the US at the beginning of WWII. By presenting his back-story in a concentration camp, his politics is effectively reduced to personal vengeance, and can no longer be considered an alternative to Professor X's fight for equality and inclusion.

The case is similar with homosexuality. Even though the fact that it most likely has strong biological and perhaps genetic origins (and that it is certainly close to impossible to change) can be used effectively in the quest for acceptance, its origin should not really matter. The behaviour of consenting adults that has no effect on others should be accepted even if it is based purely on choice. Presenting it as a biological given obscures the argument that harmless behaviour should never be criminalised or ostracised, and may even open up the possibility of viewing non-mainstream sexualities as mild genetic disorders that should be tolerated, but not accepted as normal alternatives.

In my writing, I have always striven to create tragedies that unstoppably progress towards an inevitable catastrophe; which contain a delusion or insanity that is on a collision course with the real world. But I find that providing the back-story of this delusion makes it appear manageable; it creates a feeling of "Oh, I see, so that's why he's like that," and completely destroys its power and inevitability. It is no longer awe-inspiring; and the back-story, having provided the illusion of an explanation, lift us above the delusion. We no longer fear that it could also happen to us, as we cling on to the false belief that if we only avoid whatever caused it, we will escape. It no longer affects us, and it's no longer effective.

In fact, providing an origin for everything feeds our inherent belief in a just world, where nothing happens without a reason that can be brought under control. Determining the origin creates a sense of understanding and control; this is quite apparent in literary analyses where a biographical survey of an author is often used to explain (or, rather, explain away) their work, even though the work's effect on us as readers usually has little to do with the life of the author.

Stories and delusions, like monsters and nightmares, are most powerful when they are inexplicable.