The Incredibles II: Violet Rising

I heard the news today - oh, boy. A sequel is in the works for The Incredibles, my very favorite Pixar film ever. The Incredibles are a family of "powers," people with exceptional abilities. The parents had been great heroes for a time, until the tide of popular opinion turned against them and they had to go underground. Their children were encouraged to keep their powers secret, until a crisis emerges that draws them out and makes heroes out of all of them.

One of those heroes is Violet, the family's oldest child. Her powers are invisibility, and an accompanying ability to generate invisible force fields. She is, essentially, the Invisible Woman, from the Fantastic Four, except that she's a girl - not yet a woman.

In my book Comic Book Character I dedicate a chapter to chauvinism in storytelling associated with super heroes, especially in the early days of the genre. Why did women's powers tend to be so passive, so latent? When all the men around her are smashing, burning and stretching past anything that gets in their way, granting a female character the ability to disappear at will is hardly a great leap forward for feminism.

But Violet is, for me at least, a different story. She is, after all, a girl - not yet a woman. And she was dreamed up not in the 1960s, the nascent age of proto-feminism, but in the new millennium during feminism's third wave.

Moreover, she's a Disney princess, after a fashion, and Disney has nearly a century of hit-and-miss experience telling coming-of-age stories of young women. The writers of The Incredibles gave her those powers on purpose, to tell a particular story.

I think there's more to that story. When I've imagined a sequel to The Incredibles (oh yeah, I've imagined it), the story has centered around Violet. What follows is a brief sketch of the story I would tell, if I were at the helm.

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The Incredibles II: Violet Rising

We watched her grow up. We watched her come in to herself. We watched her become a hero.

Now it's time to watch her disappear.

Violet Parr is all grown up. She's graduated from high school and is heading off to college. She and her family are going through all the emotions you might expect: excitement, anxiety, hope, sadness. But they don't have a lot of time to process those emotions, since the new age of heroes they inaugurated has also ushered in a new wave of villains. As usual, Violet has to make her own way out of town and on to campus.

This is exactly the sort of thing Violet won't miss. Dash, the charismatic speedster/ prankster, gets the lion's share of the family's attention, and now-toddler Jack Jack demands whatever energy might be left. Violet is tired of fading into the background; she's looking forward to finding her unique place.

She finds that place when classes start. One of her professors draws her out of her shell, and when she tells him her secret, he encourages her to be fully her true self. One of her classmates, meanwhile, sees Violet slip up and is in awe of her gifts but perturbed by her seeming repression; she encourages Violet to "lighten up and live a little." But things aren't exactly what they seem. Who has Violet's best interests at heart?

Back at home, the Incredibles are down one team member. They're learning in real time, and in devastating ways, how uniquely gifted and extraordinarily capable their daughter is. They miss her, and on a fairly regular basis they worry that they literally can't live without her.

Meanwhile, what is Violet becoming? Who is Violet without the Incredibles behind her? And without them, is she still incredible? How will she find her way out of the increasingly dangerous situation she finds herself in?

A story of heroes coming of age, of families adjusting to new realities, of a young woman finding herself and sharing what she finds with the world. This is Incredibles II: Violet Rising.

Fan-tastic 4 Me

Apparently people are finding my first book in budget racks all over the world. I've seen a recent upsurge in interest around Comic Book Character in recent days:

* A minister from Pretoria, South Africa, wants to use the online discussion guide with students there.

* He's joined by my youth minister friend on the north side of Chicago, who wants to use the same study guide with his junior high students.

* Lest the book be dismissed as juvenile, which I freely aver is in keeping with my own level of maturity, it was recently given props at the hoity-toity Books & Culture Online by a student of philosophy at Calvin College. (Thanks to Ted Olsen for letting me know, and thanks to Edirin Ibru for his merciful representation of my discussion of the Punisher.

* And to top it off, the editorial intern at my place of work thinks the flip animation in the margin is "super-cool."

What's with the recent upsurge? I'm sure it has a lot to do with the recent release of Spider-Man 3, which had a decidedly morally complex plotline. That study of human sinfulness is followed up this week by the second installment in the Fantastic 4 franchise, which takes a decidedly apocalyptic turn with the rise of the Silver Surfer and the impending destruction of our planet. I wrote a background piece on the Fantastic Four for Christianity Today in time for the release of the first film; it's one of my favorite writing exercises in recent memory (probably because of the prominent props given to G. K. Chesterton at the end), so I'll shamelessly promote myself one more time and provide you with the link. Get up to speed for the release this weekend by going here.

Signing with the Enemy, Part Deux

So in a previous post I talked about the awkwardness of signing a contract for my now-forthcoming book, tentatively titled Deliver Us from Me-Ville, with a new publisher who is not only not my previous publisher but is not my employer, as is my previous publisher. Does that make sense? It's confusing, I know . . .

But in my previous post I promised a rationale, and not only a rationale, but a rationale that justifies the lamest, most hurtful cliche of the English language: "It's not you, it's me." You'll have to let me know if I succeed. Here goes nothing.

Ahem.

I signed with Cook rather than with IVP for a number of reasons, most of them psychological, most of them in acknowledgment of my inner weaknesses.

1. I've had this particular idea for a book for a long time, but I've been too timid to actually put it out there for someone to scrutinize and (say it ain't so!) reject. I finally worked up the moxie to draft a formal proposal and was planning to submit it to IVP when I started to think, Omigosh, my friends are going to see this proposal. They're going to decide whether it lives or dies. And when I thought of that, I had two visceral reactions:

• (VR1) If they reject it, I will take their rejection very personally, and I will be filled with shame and embarrassment, and I will have a hard time making eye contact with my friends and coworkers, and a psychic barrier will be erected, and psychic distance will build between me and my friends and coworkers, and my effectiveness at my job will suffer, and my friendships will suffer, and I don't want that.
• (VR2) If they agree to publish it, I will wonder from start to finish whether they thought it was a good book worth contracting or whether they thought It's a good enough book to make our coworker and friend happy, seeing as how he really wants to write more and lately he's seemed so anxious and timid and trepidatious, and then I'll be distracted as I write and as I work, and I will have a hard time looking my friends and coworkers in the eye, and my writing and my working will suffer, and I don't want that.

So I went to Cook, for one thing, to build as much stark objectivity into the review process for my proposal as possible, to spare my friends and my coworkers and myself the anguish that I found myself imagining. I wanted to guarantee as much as possible that this idea, that I've wanted to explore in print for a long long time, was really a legitimate, viable publishing project.

Of course, I already noted in my previous post that I did in fact know some folks at Cook, so my experiment in stark objectivity is compromised a bit from the outset, but I'm comfortable with my margin of error--due in no small part to the fact that I got what I wanted, which was a book contract.

2. I get paid for full-time work as an editor, but upon the release of my first book, Comic Book Character, I found myself frequently tempted to devote some of my work time to monitoring the business, marketing and sales concerns of my book. I didn't cave to said temptations too much, but it was a temptation I didn't enjoy, so I wasn't looking forward to the prospects of fretting over the details again, just because I happened to have read-access to the data.

3. I actually have several positive reasons for going with Cook. One is my friend the publisher, whose brain I like. I like IVP's publisher's brain too, but I digress. Another is the delightful editor, who has in our few encounters shown herself to be quite savvy about the industry and the craft of editing. Of course, my friends and coworkers are savvy too, but again, I digress. Cook has been the publisher of record for some great writers, among them Leonard Sweet, Brennan Manning and Matthew Paul Turner--not to mention they recently published a book about my hero of heroes, Jack Bauer. That's got to count for something. Of course, IVP has its share of significant writings under its hat, but darn it all if I'm not digressing again. Another reason for going to Cook with my proposal is the momentum I see happening there: with a lot of new folks with a high capacity for creative thinking about the industry and craft of publishing, I anticipate seeing them do some really interesting work on my book. It's an exciting time to be publishing with them, I think. Not that IVP doesn't have momentum and isn't exciting, but . . . what is with all this digression?!?

All this to say, I'm excited to be working with Don, and Andrea, and Cook. They're cool people doing cool stuff. And I'm excited to have a reason to really crack open the ideas behind Me-Ville. And I still think, for those of you who I've suggested publish with my employer, that IVP is a great publisher to work with and for. You can tell both IVP and Cook that I said that.

Signing with the Enemy

I have good news: Last night I received a contract for my next book, tentatively titled Deliver Us from Me-Ville. I'm pretty excited about it; I've had some of these ideas biding their time in my brain for years, so now I get a chance to free up some mental space. I've started writing but currently I'm mostly gathering material.

Here's the touchy part: I signed with a publisher other than the publisher of my first book. Not only that, I sent it to this different publisher before I showed it to the publisher of my first book. Not only that, I'm employed by the publisher of my first book. In a sense, I suppose, I've signed with the enemy.

Now let's be honest: enemy is a bit, shall we say, grandiose a term for the relationship of Cook (my new publisher) and InterVarsity Press (my [hopefully still] employer). Both are known in the industry as Christian publishers, which means that even if they were enemies, they'd be commanded by their Lord to love each other, which by default sort of makes them friends. Still, it's a little awkward for me, and potentially awkward for all my friends at both publishers.

Nevertheless, I feel good about the decision. I actually worked for Cook for about six days in the 1990s, after they bought the company I was working for but before they moved said company across the country. They gave me as nice a severance as an entry-level goofball with no marketable skills could hope to get, so I was fine with it. But if any healing needed to begin, with the offer of this book contract it's certainly begun.

I met the book publisher at Cook while he was an agent, and I always liked the book ideas he sent me and enjoyed him immensely the one time we met. My initial plan was to ask him to represent me, but then he stopped agenting and started publishing, so I had to regroup, to rethink.

In the interim I met the woman who would ultimately become my editor and found her delightful. At the same time I caught up with a former intern of mine who now worked for Cook; she was delightful too. That's three for three delightful people at one company: pretty good odds. So I swallowed my fear and sent my friend the former agent my proposal, and he sent it on to my new friend the delightful editor, who sent me several delightful e-mails that culminated in "Sure, we'll publish it." Delightful!

Meanwhile, I was thinking, Hey, wait a minute. Don't I work for a publisher? Didn't they publish my first book and give me my first blog? Don't they deposit money directly into my bank account every month? Aren't they delightful too?

And they are, don't get me wrong. Some of my most meaningful conversations and significant friendships over the past ten years have been with my coworkers. And they did great work on my first book and were willing to take a risk on an unknown author in the first place anyway. So yes, they're delightful.

Meanwhile, all the authors I have been inviting to write books for my employers are saying things like "Say, I notice you published a book with InterVarsity Press. Do you have plans to write any more books?"

"Yes, actually. Yes I do."

"So that must be delightful, getting to publish another book with your employer, where so many of your significant friendships and conversations have been forged over lo these many years."

"Well, actually, my next book isn't going to be with InterVarsity Press. It's going to be with Cook."

"What?!? Why?!? Do you hate your employer?!? Are they not delightful?!? Should I be talking with Cook instead of with you?!?"

And here's where my rationale sounds thin but, to my ears, makes perfect sense:

"It's not IVP; it's me."

Check back for part two to get my rationale.

RIP, CAP

Captain America is dead. Read about it here.

I devoted a chapter of my book to Captain America as a symbol of the journey from idealism through disillusionment to conviction. And while to kill a superhero is not necessarily to end his life, the death of Captain America is unavoidably a statement. He died once before, in the 1940s, as short-sighted comic publishers failed to grasp a vision for the character beyond the immediate jingoism of World War II, but his death this time is an indictment not of comic publishing but of the American experiment: the world, it suggests, has moved beyond America, and America will ultimately be left behind.

It's funny, because before I heard about this development I rewatched Superman Returns, in which Superman, um, returns after a five-year unexplained absence. In the interim, Lois Lane has moved on, giving birth to a child of dubious parentage, entering into a long-term committed romance and authoring the article "Why the World Doesn't Need Superman"--for which she wins a Pulitzer prize. Superman isn't dead per se, but in the eyes of Lois, in the eyes of the world, he might as well be.

By the end of the movie, of course, Lois has saved Superman, Superman has saved her; she has saved her son, he has saved her; she has saved her boyfriend, he has saved her. Superman has saved the world, and the world has saved him. Lois sits down to write another article: "Why the World Needs Superman." She's moved from idealism, through disillusionment, to conviction.

It's funny, because I'm also three months into the Year of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who writes on Christianity in the aftermath of the death of Christianity. He is leading me from idealism, through disillusionment, to conviction.

So I'm hopeful that Captain America will be resurrected. The world may not need him today, but tomorrow is another story.

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In other news, my book just came out in an Indonesian edition. I can't read it, but it sure looks sweet.