And in a related story:

Last night, what little family still live in this house gathered around the cool glow of LCD phosphors – wait, I think LCD TVs don’t have phosphors which is probably the whole point of LCD, right? Anyway, we were up to be entertained, and the daughter of the house had rented a movie, one of those “comic book” ones, just to see what it was all about. The fact that I don’t recommend it to those who aren’t fond of dark, gothic sets and a lot of CG violence is both useless and redundant because I’m not going to tell you which one it was, and besides, they’re all pretty much the same that way, anyway.

The point is (I do have a point. I often have a point, even though it probably seems more like I’m having a slope, or even a curve – sometimes a wave) this: writers should not make up unkillable monsters. I say that in the face of the fact that they do it all the time—Stargate, Sherlock Holmes (his nemesis actually did come back to life after the “last book” which is what flooding the production offices with angry email can do), Star Trek, and book after book after book. Really, what’s his name who wrote the Mars and Tarzan books? He was the worst. Out of the frying pan and into the fire.

How can this be entertaining? They make up some terrible “thing” or “race” or whatever that is so formidable as to qualify as the Final Nemesis. And then you sit there for two hours or six hundred pages watching our incredibly lucky and resourceful hero do hopeless but character building battle, until he, by some unbelievable (and I mean that literally) cascade of luck and skill finally does the danger in.

This is not fun to watch. You spend the whole time going, “Nuh-uh.” You know he’s going to win in the end anyway. And worst of all – it’s too close to real life.

I have spent my thirty something adult (parenting) years doing nothing but fighting the unwinable fight and fretting over the unkillable monsters. You know how it is—a mother wakes up in the morning with a more or less open plan, hopeful for the day, and maybe thinking that this day might actually turn out to make sense. But by noon, she’s had one baby stick her fingers into a light socket, another kid get diarrhea, a letter from the IRS informing her that the taxes she knows she sent in are now overdue, a call from the school (always bad) – and she’s run out of toilet paper.

She spends the night worrying about how she’ll save the baby if there’s an earthquake that collapses the dam and sends the river surging down her valley, remembering that she never did get the meat out of the freezer, trying to figure out if she’s got enough Christmas cards lined up, if she locked the barn, locked the back door, turned off the grill—and—wait—did she just hear a kid throwing up? And that utility bill, did she lose it? Or send it—or just stick it into the file cabinet? Then she remembers that she never did call the client with that stupid problem, and that her husband’s bound to ask about it first thing in the morning. And what happened to that promise she made herself to read the scriptures every day and start a journal on every kid? What about paying for college? Living through a goodbye at the MTC? Dropping off the bookkeeping? Checking up on a friend? Doing the right thing. Forever.

No. No. Notice to writers: I want my vacations in catharsis structured thusly: one absolutely mortal monster/issue/problem/catastrophe/emergency/mystery that involves reasonable risk handled by people who have NO superpowers or unlikely luck in an intelligent and intellectually satisfyingly witty and final way. And I want my heroes to be honorable so that the solution is accessible to the conscience burdened. And cute and funny. I want them cute and funny, not angst ridden. And I want good writing. I know—I know—that could just be the deal breaker.

But if you want me giving you two hours of my only Friday night in a week—those are my terms. I’ve got enough unkillables peeking in my windows at night—even after the kids are gone and the bills are paid. Now the monsters wear new faces: dementia, intrusive government, higher taxes, terrorism, financial crisis, the fate of dear friends, war. So if you’re going to send me a monster, just make sure it’s totally unsympathetic, mortal and evil so I can kill it. Dead.

So I can sleep.

P.S. I promise I’ll be all seasonal for the next couple of weeks. Honest.