As in Life, So in Fiction
Picture your favorite fictional character. I’ll wait…
Got ‘em? Good. Now, say goodbye — and imagine they’ve been erased. Poof. Thanos-snapped out of existence. Not even a single visual to remember them by. Gone as though they never existed.
You’d panic, right? Maybe you’d be distraught over it. Perhaps a piece of you would vanish along with them. This character means a lot more to you than you thought, huh? Why is that? How could something that’s “not real” have such an impact on you?
Fiction is as integral to reality as water is to the planet. It’s the lifeblood that nourishes our imagination; the solace that keeps us ironically grounded. Fiction often has roots in reality, which intrinsically makes it an extension of the latter. It functions as a medium for self-expression and storytelling. We romanticize (or even resonate with) characters, get tattoos of symbolic concepts, cry over the death of those who do not exist. Fictitious stories and their characters bring us closer together and allow us to express ourselves in myriad ways. Fiction is an art form.
“The fictional worlds we create for ourselves and for others do a lot more than simply entertain us. […] Fictional worlds often provide clues to who I am and what I can do. I’ve found that I can’t hide from myself, no matter how much I might want to. I’ve found connections to people I can never meet outside of the movie screen or the pages of a book, but somehow they can play a real role in my everyday life.”
— Allie Mackerty, How Fake Characters Saved My Real Life
And a life without art is unbearable, right? What about a life without fiction? Definitively not worth living. You might question that if fiction is rooted in reality, is fiction’s presence truly necessary? Well, to that I raise the question of where do you draw the line between them when they’ve become so closely intertwined?
…That’s the thing. You don’t. You can’t. For me, at least, they’ve become one and the same. Neither has existed without the other.
Fictional characters have been my comfort and guiding light from childhood. I used to watch Disney’s Sing-Along Songs: Fun with Music on repeat, yelling for my mother or grandmother to come and rewind the tape every half hour. Too young to read or understand what titles were, I would beg to watch “the movie with the blue owl”. Professor Owl had a name — and so did the VHS tape — but the movie’s defining feature was its unique and abstractly-colored character.
Make Mine Music was another anthology I used to rewind over again. Analyzing it now, I wonder if this movie was my first encounter with death. Spoiler alert for a movie from 1946, but it concludes with the harpooning of Willie the Whale. To illustrate this scene’s impact, re-watching the linked YouTube video for the timestamp left me hysterical. It doesn’t matter that it was a fictional whale; his death impacted me so much that I still get emotional over it — even 20 years later. It’s the same reason I can’t watch Quints’s death in Jaws; I change the channel every time. I’m too traumatized.
Since childhood, I’ve repeatedly turned to fiction and its characters for entertainment and to cope. Reading through the Harry Potter books with my grandmother was a childhood ritual. So was watching Dick Van Dyke movies like Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and Mary Poppins. Neopets and Naruto laid the foundation of my lifelong relationship with my best friend. A fanfiction I wrote in college helped me dissect and navigate the abusive, toxic relationship I was in. Fiction has forever been omnipresent in my life.
This omnipresent force has allowed me to connect both with others and myself. Bonding with others over fictional content has allowed me to deepen my relationships with them. Self-created content, meanwhile, has helped me better understand myself as a whole.
Some of my characters have manifested from the toxicity and trauma I’ve endured. They, like myself, have been molded from and shaped by it. Character design as a technique has helped me push these individuals even further. I’ve even done some reflecting while developing them. As a result of channeling my life story and experiences into my characters, my brain has since blurred the line between me and them.
The reality of my characters is that without both fiction and reality, they could not exist.
Art Reflects Self
I was constantly inspired, influenced, and affected by fictional characters growing up. Mewtwo from Pokémon was a staple name in my household. Sonic Adventure 2 Battle inspired a lifelong journey of inserting my own character(s) into various retconned plots. Star Fox Adventures was the fodder that sparked my desire to create and develop a video game — a goal I first set into motion in 2009. A goal I’ve been working towards ever since.
When a self-prophesied “deity” seeks to take control of the planet, the key individual in his grand plan is the one who stands in his way. Shikyo is nobody’s puppet, and she’ll do everything in her power to stop this so-called god from bringing about his “holy reign”.
— Excerpt of the plot of Musings Of.
I’ve temporarily titled this goal ‘Musings Of’, and I’ve developed over 43 characters unique to this world. Their personalities, quirks, shortcomings, etc. can all be traced back to the many facets of my own identity. Some are a direct reflection of who I am; others act as parallels, antitheses, or inverses. A chosen few are the extension of my own reality, one glorified as the pinnacle of my existence. Together, they are me — and I them.
But one of these individuals stands out more as me than any other. Her name is Shikyo, and she’s been around since I was old enough to hold a pencil.
Shikyo
Shikyo is the ultimate form of self-representation. She’s an extension of who I am in every sense — most notably the older, prettier, and wiser version of myself. She compensates for what I lack. She’s everything I wish I was and is simultaneously a projection of my life.
…And yet, I’ve always labeled her an orphan. I’m sure you’d guess that I’m an orphan, but that’s not the case. I grew up with a loving, supportive family — but I lacked a nuclear structure. I was raised by my single mother, my grandparents, my aunts and uncles, my neighbors; you name it. It certainly took a village. The takeaway here is that not having a standard “parent-child relationship” caused me to associate more with orphan characters than any others. I won’t bore you with the details of a testimony on my upbringing; there’s enough material to warrant a separate post entirely.
Since my biological father was not present, I’ve since compensated by always providing Shikyo with a prominent father-figure. One of these individuals is so important to us both that I almost filled out a Father’s Day card this year for him… instead of my beloved, real-life stepfather. To clarify: I briefly thought that I was filling out a Father’s Day card for a fictional character. And that’s a testament to the nonexistent line between fact and fiction.
Zak
Zak Warlyile may have been borne from my love of spiky-black-haired anime boys, but he was how I coped with a rough childhood. A busty pre-teen with unruly curls and acne-prone skin, nothing sounded more appealing to me than being an edgy, borderline emo tween boy. As the daughter of a Catholic family, that was borderline illegal.
So, I dressed Zak in things like neatly-fitting baseball tees and baggy utility pants, satisfied that he, not I, was the epitome of “cool”. Akin to Shikyo, Zak originally donned a black choker — though his was mesh where Shikyo’s was solid. Chokers, to this day, are still the epitome of fashion in my eyes. Some things never change, I guess.
I also projected onto him the role of a comforting, blood-bound peer; something I never had, given my status as only child. I never truly explored their dynamic as siblings — especially given that they were bound to be long lost kin — but it eased my mind knowing Shikyo wasn’t truly alone. At least one of us wouldn’t be.
Shikyo, Zak, and I have since evolved past the yearning for siblings, but Zak certainly helped me cope with growing up as a “sole heir”, so to speak.
Antitheses & Insecurities
While Shikyo and Zak embody my most cherished characteristics and ideals, antagonists like Kyoukou and Mikkoku are my utter antithesis. Every great protagonist requires a foil; Shikyo has two.
Kyoukou
Having wanted to be an edgy emo tween boy means I resented all things “girly”. I only played with the dolls I was gifted. I refused to wear pink; it was the antichrist. Princesses were for Disney movies. I’d have rather been Marie from The Aristocats. I was not your typical daughter.
Kyoukou took the form of everything I hated. Donned in lavish pink garb, she was Shikyo’s ultimate rival. Kyoukou was the Malfoy to Shikyo’s Potter — the antithesis to everything Shikyo and I stood for.
However, I’ve since gotten over hating the color pink. I now understand the value of little girls yearning to be princesses. (I also understand how that mentality can affect those who don’t grow out of it.) As I’ve grown, so has Kyoukou. She’s still a great foil, but she’s become so much more than just the avatar of things I don’t like.
Shikyo now has much greater enemies and rivals to handle than Kyoukou. So do I.
Mikkoku
Where Kyoukou is Shikyo’s opposite, Mikkoku Damasu is Shikyo’s inverse — even down to their dye jobs. Mikkoku was originally crafted as meek, demure, and frail. She also had a single parent. She originally lived a life of luxury, only to fall from grace once her father died. She was destined to become a pawn of the organization her father was involved with.
And then I revamped her in 2018. Tired of seeing the “dainty, helpless maiden” trope, I channeled my frustration into making Mikkoku a powerful villain. She transformed from weak and passive to power-hungry and ruthless. Her former life of luxury was erased, but she gained vanity and self-obsession in its place. Graceful humility was supplanted by justified arrogance. She now sits at the helm of the organization that used her. She has remained Shikyo’s inverse, but now sits on the opposite end of the spectrum.
“Fiction can easily become a way to try on a life you wish you could live or one you wish you were strong enough or good enough to live. But we’re often drawn to stories of darkness or dysfunction precisely because we want to understand these people who seem so broken or wrong to us.”
— Drew McWeeny, Voir “But I Don’t Like Him”
There are, however, much scarier villains than Mikkoku. People say your greatest enemy is yourself. My greatest enemy is both myself and the personification of my reflection. He’s the greater enemy Shikyo and I have to deal with.
Nicky
I mentioned earlier that I was “raised by a village”. I like to think that my upbringing resulted in me being a well-rounded adult.
Nicky Deceverence wasn’t so fortunate.
Nicky’s family followed the familiar nuclear outline — mother, father, offspring. Both he and I are only children, but he had both parents. …And no one else. I had a supportive network of adults in my “family”. Nicky was abused by the two people who gave him life.
People who suffer from abuse can carry that trauma with them. Some exhibit correlational behavior and tendencies as a result. Such is the case with Nicky. His origin story begins with abuse, a path he then walks the rest of his life. He grew to be manipulative, abusive, vengeful, and downright wicked. He lies for personal gain. He manipulates those around him without a second thought. He planted a gun on an innocent bystander named Noir, and the rest is history. There’s nothing left in Nicky to save — and he wouldn’t have it any other way.
Nicky is my worst fear realized: becoming a product of your upbringing. He’s the reality of what could’ve happened if my childhood trauma got the better of me. He truly is my reflection.
The Shattered Looking Glass
And just like a shattered looking glass, there is no boundary in my mind between reality and fantasy. I often visualize scenarios of my fictional characters in full-depth scenarios. I’ve had a rendered, 3D, third-person dream about Shikyo and Zak. Daily interactions cause me to think about my characters in the same way I think about “real people”.
Something as simple as listening to music is enough to remind me of these characters. You wouldn’t believe the number of songs I’ve listened to and went, “Wow, is this about Shikyo/Kyoukou/Nicky/etc.???”. Music is also the source of some of my visualized scenarios. I bawled my eyes out listening to George Ezra’s “The Beautiful Dream” because I envisioned a traumatic scene dealing with one of my character’s deaths.
“At this point, everything around the two of them stopped. This heart-wrenching scene was enough to create a stalemate between both parties. Sorrow; regret; intrigue. Whatever each respective onlooker’s reasoning was, time seemed to cease as this man sang his heart’s deepest regrets and rawest compassion to his dying companion.”
— An excerpt from Musings Of
It affected me so much that I ended up making it a plot point in Musings Of. I’m sure I won’t be able to pay Ezra his royalties, but the sentiments evoked were the most important. This real song, presumably about real people, caused me to connect with my characters on a deeply personal level — which was enough to move me to tears. The thought of this character’s death felt similar to the death of a friend. I won’t soon forget that heartbreak.
Magnum Opus
Everyone dreams of having a magnum opus. Very few are able to produce such a work.
Benson is my magnum opus.
As a character, he’s the culmination of everything I am plus my artistic and creative abilities. I’m fond of every character I’ve created, but Benson’s his own entity entirely. A god amongst mortals, if you will. Shikyo may be my persona, the enhanced embodiment of qualities I possess, but Benson is my pinnacle. The pinnacle.
As an individual, he’s everything I wish I could be. Witty. Charming. Resourceful. Gorgeous. He’s everything I wish I had — in every sense of the notion.
He is perfection. He is my everything.
And I don’t mean this in a “creator fawns over artwork” manner. I cannot emphasize enough the hold on my brain this man has. Those songs I mentioned? How I’ll ask myself “was this written about this character”? My Spotify playlists for my characters are canon, and an alarming number of songs on Benson’s playlist were put there intentionally. Real songs, written by real people, about real concepts/emotions/individuals. All attributed to something you may say is “not real”. This man is as real to me as everything else in my life. So much so that the thought of him is enough to make my heart ache.
“Suadade” is defined as:
“a deep emotional state of nostalgic or profound melancholic longing for something or someone that one cares for and/or loves. Moreover, it often carries a repressed knowledge that the object of longing might never be had again”.
In a beautiful, poignant piece, Medium author Gina Bay describes suadade as the missing of something you’ve never had.
I’ve never had the experience of coexisting with Benson, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tragically affected by it.
Fiction Is Real to Me
Earlier I asked how and why something that’s “not real” could be so impactful. The most poignant answer I can offer is that “if it’s real to you, that’s all that matters”. Benson and every other character I’ve created or encountered are as real to me as the screen on which you read this article. So let me raise a counter-inquiry as part of my response:
If you can’t touch your own reflection, does that make it “not real”?
I’ll let you in on a secret. My ultimate goal for the future is to have every single one of the characters in Musings Of be present at my funeral via augmented reality, thereby shattering the barrier between reality and fiction. They are as much a part of me as I am them, and they’ll continue to carry my legacy. They’ll even tell you about it when you ask.
One day you’ll be able to meet them.
And maybe, god willing, I will, too.
