I am a child of the eighties. By saying that, I do not mean that I was born in the eighties; instead I mean that I grew up in the eighties.
What does that really mean? Well, it means that I know true happily ever after doesn’t exist, but I still want to believe that inside every bad boy is a good man that just needs the love of an even better woman. It means that artists are tortured by their own creativity and that everyone had a deeper side.
The music of the eighties also went somehow deeper, resonating with that part of ourselves that we didn’t really want the rest of the world to know about. Songs back then were about something, feelings and events, something that hadn’t been heard of since the sixties and has yet to be seen again.
During the eighties, it was easier to believe in your heroes because they all had demons that they didn’t try to hide. The thing that really sticks out in my mind is the memory of the flawed hero.
I’ve always admired the flawed hero. In my writing, my characters are often flawed heroes. The bad boy that needs to make good, the overlooked girl that becomes a sex symbol, these are the flawed heroes that I try to bring to life.
The idea of flawed heroes have been on my mind a lot lately, first with the death of Amy Winehouse and then again with the death of Jani Lane. These were two great artists, extremely talented and suffering within this amazing talent to make it in the day to day world. We’ve all had that feeling, that moment when we just want to scream at everything to just stop, if only for a minute to let us catch our breaths. Unfortunately, for those two tortured artists it went too far and they are now silenced for eternity.
“Another wasted rocker,” said the guy in line ahead of me at Wal-Mart as he eyed the news on his i-phone. “It’s not tragic, it’s pathetic.”
Now, this guy was a twenty something suit wearing robot. You know the kind, he did everything right in high school, got a job that pays a little, and now he is an expert on all things. He’s the sort that complains that the country is going to pot, but won’t hold the door open for a woman with a stroller.
“Yeah,” I said as glanced at his items on conveyer. “About as pathetic as you thinking you’ll actually use those condoms you’re buying.”
I smiled at him as another lane opened up and I stepped over to it. He was cussing me under his breath, but I didn’t care. I scored one for the flawed heroes out there.
What does that really mean? Well, it means that I know true happily ever after doesn’t exist, but I still want to believe that inside every bad boy is a good man that just needs the love of an even better woman. It means that artists are tortured by their own creativity and that everyone had a deeper side.
The music of the eighties also went somehow deeper, resonating with that part of ourselves that we didn’t really want the rest of the world to know about. Songs back then were about something, feelings and events, something that hadn’t been heard of since the sixties and has yet to be seen again.
During the eighties, it was easier to believe in your heroes because they all had demons that they didn’t try to hide. The thing that really sticks out in my mind is the memory of the flawed hero.
I’ve always admired the flawed hero. In my writing, my characters are often flawed heroes. The bad boy that needs to make good, the overlooked girl that becomes a sex symbol, these are the flawed heroes that I try to bring to life.
The idea of flawed heroes have been on my mind a lot lately, first with the death of Amy Winehouse and then again with the death of Jani Lane. These were two great artists, extremely talented and suffering within this amazing talent to make it in the day to day world. We’ve all had that feeling, that moment when we just want to scream at everything to just stop, if only for a minute to let us catch our breaths. Unfortunately, for those two tortured artists it went too far and they are now silenced for eternity.
“Another wasted rocker,” said the guy in line ahead of me at Wal-Mart as he eyed the news on his i-phone. “It’s not tragic, it’s pathetic.”
Now, this guy was a twenty something suit wearing robot. You know the kind, he did everything right in high school, got a job that pays a little, and now he is an expert on all things. He’s the sort that complains that the country is going to pot, but won’t hold the door open for a woman with a stroller.
“Yeah,” I said as glanced at his items on conveyer. “About as pathetic as you thinking you’ll actually use those condoms you’re buying.”
I smiled at him as another lane opened up and I stepped over to it. He was cussing me under his breath, but I didn’t care. I scored one for the flawed heroes out there.
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