When I was a teenager, I sang alto in a homeschool choir. I remember one night during the break, I was milling around in the hall listening to other people’s conversations when I happened upon an intense group of boys discussing theological matters, because they were intellectually precocious, of course. It was becoming a bit of a debate, it seemed.
At the edge of the group stood Spencer. Spencer was kind of over it.
“Why don’t you guys talk about normal things?” he asked. “Like sports.”
Harrison knew the answer. “Normal things don’t go to Heaven.”
Spencer, possibly the smartest kid in the group, replied, “I’m a normal thing.”
We Need to Chill
Sometimes, I think Christians—and everybody else, for that matter—are afraid of acknowledging that normal things deserve to be appreciated. Everybody wants to look deep. We want to look smart. We want to look like we have our priorities straight at all times. We have no time for trivialities and silliness. Entertainment? Fun and games? Goofing off? That’s for children.
But as somebody who entertains people with my imaginary scenarios as a career, it can be hard, in such a serious world, to see the importance of what I’m trying to do. I’m trying to serve a fandom, at the end of the day. I’m just offering a colorful diversion to help people shake off the dull heavy sameness of life. People want that, sometimes. It’s normal.
I want to talk about the importance and untapped potential of “fandom” in this post. “Fandom” is a community spirit that arises around a successful bit of media when those who enjoy it bond over it and expand on it. It’s very important to fiction writers, and I will mainly be talking about it in the context of the love of fictional characters and worlds.
But first, I’m going to talk about sports.
I ignored sports for most of my life. I think I kind of assumed it was over my head somehow. I would have to learn a bunch of rules to understand what I was even seeing, and I didn’t have the time for that.
Until this spring, when my family started watching Tigers baseball together, and I somehow got really invested. The Detroit Tigers had a rough season this time around, but they also had some exciting stretches in midsummer, and a lot of flashes of promise for next year. We kind of knew they wouldn’t make the playoffs when we finally made the daytrip to Detroit to see them live in September. But we didn’t really care.
Baseball is great. What some people complain makes the game slow-moving I prefer to call suspense. I like to be able to theorize what’s about to happen in those moments where the whole field is frozen. The camera zooms in on the pitcher’s eyes, the batter’s micro-expressions. The pitch clock counts down. Four, three—he still hasn’t moved—the windup, the pitch. Slider away. The batter chases. Man, he low-key hates himself right now. It’s okay, bud. Kind of. 2-2.
I found myself always looking forward to the game coming on. Something about bumming around for a few hours watching grown men play a kids’ game is uniquely refreshing for my tired brain. Life is serious and overcomplicated and full of things to worry about. But this isn’t about that. We just need one more strikeout right now.
I wasn’t exactly having any deep intellectual thoughts when Kevin McGonigle hit one over the fence while my family was finally in Comerica Park in person. This is probably evident from the inhuman siren noise I didn’t even notice I was making at the time. But I did realize something looking back on that moment. (Something aside from the life lesson: shut up before hitting Record. Save yourself some cringing later.)
That surge of electricity that swept through the crowd wasn’t mass hysteria. It wasn’t just a rather silly reaction to some 22-year-old hitting a ball with a stick and sending it really far. This stuff actually matters, somehow. Something important was happening here.
People Need More Than One World
In order to get the courage to promote my work, I’m going to have to start believing something I know is true. The books themselves matter. The books themselves are the ministry. Every time I start to think about what I need to do to get Dronefall into readers’ hands, something stops me. Something that tries to tell me writing books isn’t worthy by itself. I can’t convince anyone else it is, either. Not until I link it to something real. Important. Serious. Something that goes to Heaven.
This is a sentiment I’ve posted about before. But I want to recognize the specifics too few people acknowledge. A fandom is an expansion of the real world. It’s not a fake world to indulge in and shut out what really matters. This dawned on me in a new way this year. I can’t tell you how many times I was hanging out with my family watching baseball, talking about baseball, recapping what happened in last night’s game when I realized—this wasn’t just about baseball. This was a microcosm of real life. It was life zoomed in so you could see the fundamentals, the moving parts, the strings and motors—and when you look at it that way, suddenly—if even just for a fleeting moment—it actually makes sense.
Fictional worlds are exactly the same thing. They’re necessarily simplified, removed, color-enhanced in post-production. But they’re only irrelevant if you don’t recognize the opportunity they open for you. You’ve been invited to a fresh world with new insight waiting around every corner.
Those insights are going to ambush you every time, because you keep forgetting you’re not just here for the fun and games. You’re here because God has something to show you. Something you never would have seen if you were too intellectual to read a little-known cyberpunk series, or talk about sports.
That’s what I have to offer. I don’t need to contrive anything more to look legitimate or impressive. God knows what He’s doing bringing readers to the Dronefall Series. I don’t have to worry about it. And neither do you. You can just come along for the fun of it. Just kick back and watch the game. Who knows? Maybe somebody will send a baseball out of the park and straight into Heaven.