“We’re on a Mission from God.”

I came across this song recently by a musician named Billy Cobb entitled, “All My Favorite Comedians Are Dead”, and I have not stopped thinking about the piece for days.

A fun tune, yes, but this celebration of some of comedy’s greats who have passed on from this world is so shakingly filled with melancholy in my mind. All my favorite comedians are dead, sings Cobb. And it was said they’d live forever / Now the joke’s on them / They’ll never tell their jokes again. Sure, there are old legends that I love featured in the verses, like Buster Keaton and Jim Henson, who died long before my time of birth or childhood. But so many others in Cobb’s song resided in this world the same time as I for a time, such as Gene Wilder and Robin Williams . . . gosh.

While I talk so much about sci-fi, fantasy, action adventure, and (since becoming a full grown adult) horror that I scare even the cuddliest of puppies away, I have always had a deep respect, fascination, and belief in the art of comedy. (A sincere shoutout to the YouTube channel, Hat’s Off Entertainment, for teaching me so much about the history and significance of this genre in film and television). Cobb’s song got me thinking that others may not understand why comedians are so vital to society, and I decided that lack of know-how needed fixing.

‘Cause, ya know, what else am I supposed to do on a Tuesday night when my life’s already a joke?

“There Are a Few, Uh, Provisos . . .”

Ask anyone who knows me, and they might say my true-believer status in comedy is sort of strange considering I despise class clowns.

To clarify, I do not hate class clowns. I have experienced class clown types who have lifted me up through the drudgery of school, work, and daily life. Yet I will not deny that there are way, way too many straight-up privileged jerks, ignorant jerks, and selfish jerks who have gotten a pass through life because they are deemed attractive and makers of good jokes. They are on television every hour on the hour in commercial after commercial in-between horrible show after horrible show. They are not funny.

“Comedy is subjective.”

Sure, and they are still not funny.

The distinction is that the bad clowns do not lift people up; they only lift themselves up. They regurgitate the same predictable, tired, and uninteresting commentary, twists, and words we have heard a million times, all usually wrapped by the oh-so-holy and oh-so-enticing garb of the almighty robe of Cynical Sarcasm. But they look good and are admittedly clever enough to tune the masses to them, so, here we are. The bad class clowns are loud, obnoxious, unoriginal, and get all the money in the world for being sub-par talents when there are so, so many more brilliant comedians and actors out there.

Which means the world is still running on original factory settings. All is well.

Comedy is not a positive force when it is used to validate the arrogant dismissal of real people. I should not be in discomfort watching a piece of stand-up just knowing I am probably going to be forced to hear some unintelligent retort or uncompelling summary of a real world issue receiving blind applause and laughter. Where is the talent and power in trivializing, say, a corrupt government when real people are getting hurt? The Animaniacs, a cartoon for kids, can more constructively mock the awful powers that be than these overpriced clowns I am told to respect.

To illustrate, a comedian I have liked for years opened his latest stand-up special saying he will not discuss politics, only to do so for the next 15 or so minutes while mocking the idea of evolving gender titles. Firstly, a comedian cannot discuss politics? What are they supposed to discuss in a time when everything is political, then?

Secondly, regardless of how relatable the frustrations are to some in his audience, how in God’s name could mocking gender titles in a time when youths are being socially ostracized, with the government’s approving slap on the back, for dealing with yet another identity issue possibly be helpful to anyone? Thirdly, mayhap the biggest crime, the material was just not funny. My time was collectively wasted.

Rinse and repeat this kind of pattern and you lose the positive power comedy has in our world. Instead, comedy becomes a cesspool of appropriated pain of select groups of humanity for the entertainment and weaponized misunderstanding of the masses who decide that an arrogant fool with a microphone is worth supporting more so than the less fortunate among us.

The good clowns use the gift of comedy to save humanity and help us laugh together, while the bad clowns draw deeper dividing lines.

“Sometimes in Life [a Laugh] is the Only Weapon We Have.”

Because, jeepers creepers, if we did not have the good and blessed clowns of the world—the ones Billy Cobb sung about and those who are getting to such legendary status—we would all be dead, man.

You know them when you see them. What movies, TV shows, and stand-up specials that they starred or gave a cameo in stuck with you? What brilliant talk show host had the cajones to say what was on the side of truth and justice in the most funny way possible? What cartoon characters picked you up after a horrible day? What internet clowns actually brighten up your life? (Seriously, if Man Carrying Thing would like to join OBA for a podcast episode, I would be honored!) What lines do you quote from, say, Ghostbusters, A Knight’s Tale, Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure, Clerks, Hot Fuzz, Red vs. Blue, What We Do in the Shadows, A Goofy Movie, Kung Fu Hustle, The Birdcage, The Simpsons, Happy Gilmore, The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air . . . the list goes on for miles and miles and is always being added to.

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Comedy can communicate, heal, connect others, and, perhaps the art form’s most underrated ability, educate. Sadly, I have never been able to find this recording again, but in college, I listened to a 1960s record featuring contemporary funny people, such as Lenny Bruce, criticizing governmental policies and cultural norms of the day. The madame who provided the introduction to the performance described comedians as society’s conscience. I never forgot, nor stopped believing, this description.

A long while back, I was reading Avatar: The Last Airbender co-creator Bryan Konetizko’s Tumblr and saw a post of him recommending Hannah Gadsby’s stand-up special, Nannette, stating that men should watch the show. Being the Avatar acolyte that I have always been, I listened, and what I heard in that show changed me, opening my eyes to so many little things I never knew or considered. Tis the almighty George Carlin who showed me I had the makings of a political delinquent, which is why I am speaking to you now. As a wee little lad in the ‘90s, Men in Black showed me my place in the universe in the best of ways. While far from a laugh-out loud funny book, stumbling across Owen Egerton’s comedy novel, The Book of Harold, the Illegitimate Son of God, as a college freshman made me see religion and faith in a light I never had before. Futurama first taught me that masterful comedy could bring me to tears. Jon Stewart’s tenure on The Daily Show showed that the emperor, indeed, has no clothes, and honestly accurate observations could help keep them off.

“By Grabthar’s Hammer . . .”

We are all reminded every day of how evil and unfair the world is—constantly, non-stop. Laughter does not make the pain go away, and clowns never did much against systematic corruption. (Legislation and the judiciary system has not fared much better, to be fair.)

Case in point: In the same week I found Billy Cobb’s song and I was waxing poetic about that time Pee-Wee Herman asked about the Alamo’s basement, I read headlines that sunk my heart to my soles and made me want to rage.

Then, I was reminded of something my sister told me earlier this year. We were headed out to our annual fan convention, and I remarked how I felt guilty having fun in a big city when, a hop-skip away from the event’s convention center, politicians were drafting legislation that attacked most of our fellow con attendees. She shared something she heard: the idea that even being positive, happy, and having a good time is an act of rebellion, because all that those who are against humankind want is for us to be afraid and wallow in our misery. In fact, I attended one late night panel at that very con that had me laughing so hard my stomach ached and I could hardly breathe: a glorious exhilaration.

I had never heard of such an idea, but I more firmly believe now that comedy, from Daffy Duck to Aisling Bea and beyond, is indeed a tool against this darkness. One of many.

The punchline to this conversation is to never be afraid to laugh. Never think of comedy as only a silly thing that does hardly anything of importance, and never believe mere silliness is in vain. Learn how to use this tool for good in your own stories. Do not try to be funny for your own ego. Do so to uplift your heart and others.

There are many genres and many art forms in this world, and we will need every single one to bring us to a better tomorrow. I love comedy, and I love the great comedians, and while not all of us are naturally funny (as my attempts at humor in this article show) we can all laugh and, in our own way, make others laugh.

And sometimes that is exactly what we need to survive.

💬 Comment below:

• What storytellers, comedians, or artists share laughs and hope that uplift you on your darkest days?

• How do you hope your story or art will make people feel

“Another Year Gone.”

This merry time of year often feels decidedly less-than-merry for many of us. In the face of everyone else’s joyous celebrations, a lack of joy can feel like a cruel, chastising joke. This is my December.

Again, another harsh year, and this one was momentously brutal for me, personally. Again, I flip on my TV and turn on nostalgic holiday favorites, which includes Beauty and the Beast: The Enchanted Christmas.

NOW! Before I hear a bloody person make a single fricking comment about this movie and how that reflects poorly on my artistic appraisals, let me make one thing perfectly, crystal clear: All of you made the live-action version of the Grinch from 25 years ago a universal classic. You have your trash, I have mine. (At least this one has Tim Curry voicing the villain).

Like many Christmas movies, this unnecessary Disney cash-grab of a direct-to-video spin-off flick, filled with choppy writing and B-grade animation, is not good. I dug the piece as a kid and now consider the work to be poor. Yet I still watch and—mostly for nostalgia—enjoy the movie anyway. We all have our guilty pleasures and garbage we love, and that is a-okay! (As I often say of comic creator Todd McFarlane’s most famous character: “Yes, Spawn is trash, but Spawn is my trash!”).

However, within this picture everyone can agree is professionally awful, there is a little moment that in recent Christmas seasons I cannot help but reflect on more and more deeply as I get older and older, and the world—and my life—get darker and darker.

No, I am not writing hopefully today, nor am I sharing encouragement you can find from any preachy Instagram account. I am just writing honestly about a question I am forced to confront every year, so you can feel less alone if you find yourself also facing this question.

“The Days Have Gone Down in the West.”

For the full context, if you have not seen Disney’s Beauty and the Beast, stop reading and watch the film anyway you can right now. Yes, RIGHT NOW! For this post’s necessary context: The Enchanted Christmas is set during the middle of Belle’s time in the castle of the villainous, albeit complicated, Beast. The two are changing, slowly becoming friends, but their relationship is still rocky. Belle is honor bound to remain the troubled Beast’s prisoner (again, go watch that masterpiece if you haven’t already!) and now a snowy winter has arrived. She tells the enchanted anamorphic objects of the castle (formerly human beings cursed by the same spell that turned their Prince into the Beast) that today is Christmas Eve, which they have not celebrated since before their transfiguration. The reason: the Beast hates Christmas and has banned the holiday.

Belle, being the coolest gal in fairytale France, decides to hell with the Beast’s decree! With the help of her new friends, she will host a Christmas party for everyone in the castle. The plans include finding a Yule Log, which, as a child, I had never heard of before this movie. She goes to the boiler room looking for the perfect piece of wood for the occasion. Thanks to Tim Curry’s Forte, an anamorphic giant organ and the best part of this VHS tape, the Beast finds out about Belle’s plans and heads down to the boiler room.

He takes the Yule Log from Belle, examining the wood, and she explains its significance.

“It’s a wonderful tradition. One log is chosen and then everyone in the house touches it and makes a Christmas wish.”

In other words, the Yule Log is a symbol of hope for the future. An optimistic tradition that looks to a year ahead filled with opportunity and goodness, regardless of what has fallen upon the world in the past 12 months.

The Beast, bound by his regret and despair over being a perceivably unlovable creature, seethes at the sight of the log. Unthinking, he lets the worst of himself out.

“Wishes are stupid.”

Then, he delivers the bombshell question, roaring and gesturing to the castle that is Belle’s permanent jail:

“You made a Christmas wish last year. Is THIS WHAT YOU WISHED FOR?!”

Think about that exchange for a moment.

“It’s Going to be Cold, It’s Going to be Gray, and It’s Going to Last You the Rest of Your Life.”

I have had many years full of misfortune, but (and I never use Christ’s name in vain, only as a cry out for help in my most heartbreaking times), Jesus Christ, 2025 has been monstrous—for me personally, not even considering the obvious orgy of evil we found in the news all year that affected us all. Now, I am not throwing a pity party, venting, or seeking attention in illustrating some of what I have weathered. I only want you to know that if you find yourself experiencing similar sorrows after a tumultuous year, you are not alone.

The year was kickstarted off horribly with a crappy New Year’s Eve. I continued to work a hard job that did not pay me what I needed to survive. I learned a new hellish layer of truth to a black and burdensome family secret I had been forced to know in 2024 and was still coming to terms with, which made the whole trauma infinitely worse, shattering my sense of identity. I lost much of the medical support I needed and ended up also losing thousands of dollars to a crooked, popular insurance company.

My yearly visit to my local, beloved fan convention was not uplifting, but instead plagued by my untreated mental health conditions. Intrusive thoughts of the most heinous kind and a brief ear infection wracked me.

The unbearably blazing summer that came next was, as a whole, cursed by a horrifying melancholy, hopelessness, and increasing sense of doom. Like I needed to escape my living status or something unspeakable would happen to me.

June culminated in a surprise trip to Florida with my family (one I gave up ever having hope to pay for) to the brand-new Epic Universe theme park, where a bitchin’ new ride about the Universal Classic Monsters, characters my brother and I share a great love for, awaited me. I was there verbally told I was too fat to ride the attraction; I hope you never have to endure that kind of public embarrassment. In the last days of my vacation, I became very sick with a nasty, long-lasting cold.

When I returned home still ill, I learned I would either have to spend most of my life savings or have my university student debt increase beyond my control. A no-win scenario. So, I lost almost every dollar to my name, trapping me further in a life I needed to escape.

I realized I needed to act upon the romantic feelings I had for someone I cared about for many years, only to learn my love was unrequited. Another heartbreak that reminded me how lonely I would always feel. I had a horrendous night of sleep that made me unable to feel calm for weeks and weeks. A string of restless nights led me to fear sleep itself.

Eventually, there came a day when I simply lost my mind. Despite having a fair day, I could not stop shaking; panicking; feeling like I was trapped in a nightmare I could not wake up from, ever, no matter what I did or where I went. Nothing was real, and no one would save me. If not for an emergency call to professionals, I would have gone to a hospital. A few days later, I woke up so panicked that I truly thought I was about to have a heart attack and rushed to the nearest urgent care. There, I found out I was critically obese, had a nearly catastrophic blood pressure rate, and was bound for more severe medical problems.

A brief trip to the home of a dear friend we will call “P,” whom I have known for a whopping 16 years, helped momentarily ease me. But my everyday reality had become continuous mental health agonies: feeling like my world was not real; unable to sit still; panicked by sleep; constant chest pains; worsening intrusive thoughts. My mind had crumbled so much I no longer saw myself with a future.

Most recently, I lost my cat, a stray who adopted me around the time I lost my precious kitty I had raised since she was born. He once curled tighter in my arms to comfort me after I woke up from a nightmare. He was a good boy. The sleepless nights, panic attacks, and disconnection from reality returned in force again.

In the immediate present, while I have been dealing with the loss of my irreplaceable feline buddy, I was told the absolute worst misfortune of this year: The person most important to me has been struck with a fatal illness and they must now fight for their life. While the medical reports suggest we are in the best-case scenario and, after a very shitty upcoming few months, this darkness will pass and they will not die . . . well, I think you can imagine how I felt hearing the news.

I shared with “P”: truthfully, I no longer wanted to live. I no longer wanted to be the butt of life’s jokes. I did not want to live the exact same year of despair again come 2026. I did not want to be alive anymore, and I meant it.

“How Can We Endure It?”

Back to Beauty and the Beast: The Enchanted Christmas.

After Beast’s declaration of the straight fact that, despite what Belle wished for last Christmas, her life has gotten worse, Belle calmly, bravely, and wisely responds that, no, being a prisoner to save her father is not what she hoped for.

“But I’ll keep wishing.”

The Beast further chastises her determination to think next year will be any better. Though he is acting horribly, he is not being intentionally cruel but letting his own panic and hopelessness run wild out of his damaged heart in a harmful way. He accuses Belle of not knowing the agony of his life.

“You have no idea what it’s like to lose everything, to be trapped in your own castle, to be a . . . a . . .”

“Prisoner?”

Belle finishes for him. The Beast realizes he has done goofed, regretting his hurtful statement. Belle has the last word:

“The only one holding us prisoner here is you. Well, I’m not giving up!”

Long ago, this exchange did not mean much to me. In recent years, which seem full of disappointments, chronic sufferings, and hope dwindling so much I honestly do not see any future for me beyond being, well, a prisoner of my life until I finish living the wrong life and leave this world one way or another, this scene—no matter what I or anyone else thinks of the movie—hits hard.

This year, I am also wondering about a question concerning Belle’s response: Do I really have her faith in the future? Do I even want to?

“Certain As the Sun.”

My honest answer: I don’t know.

I am tired of my faith and hope being denied. I am tired of living the life I live defined by rejection, exile, isolation, and chronic ailments. I am stuck in a cycle I cannot escape. I dread 2026 being 2025 remixed. This year, which was too much like last year, etc.

But I will say: I do not think Belle is wrong for having faith that things will turn around. Period. Perhaps that simple statement holds the greatest power for hope.

In fact, Belle’s optimism is ultimately proven right. For, in time, she and the Beast will become good friends, then true lovers, and in their love they will find healing and freedom they never dared hope for.

As for the Beast’s question . . . I have thoughts.

When I visited with “P” a few months ago, he gave me advice. He said I should put aside focusing on my creative projects, which I thought would save me, and focus on healing my life right now. Because, otherwise, not only may I never finish those creative dreams of mine, but I will also continuously hurt being trapped in my cycles.

I listened to him. I found a better job. I have dedicated myself to dieting and the gym and have seen results.

This new job is still riddled with problems. I still get up, drive, and walk into the school feeling miserable; unwanted; going nowhere; hopeless. My kitty I thought would heal me from losing my other fur baby died, and now my dearest is, as of this writing, technically, dying.

I called “P” in my job’s parking lot after work one day. For two hours we talked, and I told him I was thinking of maybe driving this car off the campus and killing myself. Or maybe driving away, out of Georgia, away from everyone I know, and going back home, out west, where I belong, and disappearing. I did not want to endure any more pain with my dearest’s fatal illness. I was tired of being told by everyone I had to keep on living and to keep on going and be hopeful for the future and . . . and . . .

Once again, “P” gave me pragmatic advice. He told me every time we talked and I shared my sorrows, there were recurring, chronic patterns. He said I no longer looked at life as anything but a horrifying nightmare, and I needed to stop, to find the goodness around me, because the way I was viewing life now, I was “dying.” Change would come slowly, very slowly, but I still have a chance, there is still time, and I am on the right path because I have made the effort to change my life for the better already. I sat with his words for a moment and knew he was right again.

So, the next day, as I was walking into the school feeling trapped, miserable, and afraid, I stopped myself in my negativity. I am making double what my last job gave me, and this work is better, too. The few friends I have helped talk me out of my despair and have given me nothing but good advice and support to help me through these latest trials, like good friends do. With this mindset shift, I began to sleep again, even if I still have not-so-great sleep. My chest pains started to lessen. When they do come, I accept them, and let them go by believing in the good things I have even despite the pain. The intrusive thoughts finally began to fade away, and I learned again who I was.

One morning at work, just last week, as I prepared to teach my students for the day, I was feeling anxious, panicked, and the cycle of despair returned . . . and I just vehemently did not want to panic. I did not want to be scared anymore. I was tired, done, with being afraid. I wanted to see the good I have so my spirit would stop dying. That moment is when I noticed my hope was still alive. Then, I had a nice day.

This year is not what I wished for last year. But “P” and my precious few friends are right. I do not know what will happen in 2026. I will not prophecy any certain catastrophes or joy for next year when this Christmas ends. But I do know for certain it is okay, it is good, to wish for a better year; to hope for the future; and to keep on doing so, year after year.

As another dear friend of mine recently told me: Please, do not give up. Enjoy this holiday season as you see fit, and do not give up. Celebrate New Year’s Eve in peace and do not give up. I implore you to keep on wishing, dreaming, and hoping, and I will do so with you.

Happy holidays to you all. No matter what despair you may be holding, go ahead and burn your own kind of Yule Logs.

💬 Comment below:

• Are you going into 2026 feeling hopeful for the future, or struggling to see beyond the darkness of 2025?

• What stories bring you peace or joy during this holiday season?

Sincere Merry Christmas and Happy Holiday season wishes from the story team at . We are so grateful for all of you who stuck with us through 2025. We are choosing to look ahead with hope that 2026 holds magic for all of our stories!

💌Love,

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“Call me Ishmael.”

Ask anybody and they will give you the same answer as to what Herman Melville’s Moby Dick (or The Whale) is about: ‘Tis an 1800s nautical novel about Captain Ahab, the guy who lost his leg to Moby Dick, a big ole’ white whale. Ahab is obsessive in his quest for revenge against the whale for taking his leg. He sails across oceans to hunt down Moby Dick and fails, losing his ship, crew, and life. The moral is:

“Revenge can eat you up from the inside out.”

This book is a cautionary tale about not letting a need for vengeance consume your life. Somebody might mention the two Star Trek tales (the superb Wrath of Khan and the excellent First Contact) which directly reference Melville’s story in the context of Ahab’s mad pursuit of retribution. The end.

This is the answer I, too, would have given prior to reading the book. Now, however, I can tell you that this understanding, ingrained in the general culture’s mind, is wrong.

Yes, “Old Thunder” is a nutty captain on a doomed quest to kill the titular white whale, and the crew of his whaling vessel, the Pequod, does eventually realize that Ahab’s quest is foolhardy and is going to get them all killed.

One night, I could not sleep, and found an audiobook of the late great book narrator, Frank Muller, whose majesty I first knew from his reading of The Dark Tower books, giving his take on Moby Dick. I figured the old-timey book would be filled with fanciful, impossible-to-follow talk and swiftly lull me to sleep. Yet, just as Muller’s perfect narration began to send me to the Land of Nod, passages in the first chapter began to stir my heart and imagination in a way I did not expect. Hooked, I began reading the book, and soon I realized that what Melville had written was not a book trapped in its mid-19^th century era.

Melville really had written a story about a timeless theme: humanity’s vain hope that we can ever match—let alone defeat—powers greater than we can imagine, and why, to our detriment, we fight the fact that we are specks in an unstoppable universe neither benevolent nor malicious.

“We Ourselves See in All Rivers and Oceans.”

Moby Dick is a first-person narrative written by the protagonist, Ishamel, chronicling his time on the Pequod’s whaling voyage long after the ship has sunk. (He tells the reader this doom early in the book). What captured my attention is the fact that Ishamel says whenever he becomes restless, he takes a journey out to sea. He says all humans have this innate longing for the sea. We like to swim; be near water; every path we take leads us to water unconsciously; a painting of a lush countryside means less than one with a body of water.

Whether by some spiritual link we are ignorant of, our evolutionary ancestry longing to return to whence we came, some combination of both, or an unknowable answer, humanity’s heart is drawn to the sea. In a way, we believe we belong there. By the time I read this book, I realized, despite being a desert child, I, too, had an odd, serious fascination and longing for the ocean. Indeed, I have always fancied nautical stories thanks to reading Paul Dowswell’s Powder Monkey in 2^nd grade. Swiftly, Moby Dick spoke to me personally.

Following the typical structuring of an Epic, Ishmael’s story just to get aboard the Pequod is long and tediously detailed, but Melville certainly builds up the hype for the voyage to start. The excitement at getting out to sea becomes overwhelming until, at last, the Pequod sets sail on a 3-year journey from the isle of Nantucket in the northern Atlantic. The whaling crew’s job: hunt, kill, and extract from whales as much organic goods—primarily oil for lamps—as they can. Already, there is a subtle socio-economics conversation in Moby Dick, as Ishamel says whalers are not highly regarded by the public due to their vicious jobs and perceptively unkempt ways, yet they literally help light the world against the darkness. The cost of said light is the slaughter of nature’s mysterious and mighty oceanic being.

But no time for real thinking about capitalism and nature! The adventure is underway, and we are finally at sea, humanity’s spiritual playground! Melville’s writing is so masterful there are many times I genuinely felt I was aboard the Pequod myself. Then, just as Ishmael and company settle into a groove, Captain Ahab finally enters the story, and everything changes.

“Unless God . . . Does that Living, and Not I.”

Once the Pequod is far enough away from Nantucket, Ahab reveals to his crew that he is going against his employers orders and they will primarily be hunting for the legendary Moby Dick, the white whale. Pumping up the sailors with his speech, Ahab persuades his crew that this quest is not crazy or vain, but will bring them great glory, for no sailor has ever defeated the gargantuan beast. Despite the trouble this mission will bring them, (for while they will still be gathering whale oil, this hunt goes against their legally binding contracts), the whole crew falls for Ahab’s rhetoric and happily imagines a future where they have slain Moby Dick.

The truth is, against my better judgement, so did I.

For Ahab, a married man with children back on land, is not actually obsessed with killing a specific whale for biting off his leg during a prior voyage. A limb is just a limb, despite his peg leg problems. Instead, we find out that Ahab sees in the white whale a symbol, an icon, a manifestation of the unfairness in the world that cannot be stopped. The impossible heights we cannot ever reach no matter how hard we try, so declares a silent and unkind universe. In a just world, he should be able to challenge the whale fairly, man to beast—a fin for a leg; trauma for trauma. In Ahab’s mind, there should be a balance of justice, a chance at a fair trial of might and wills. Instead, Moby Dick simply exists arbitrarily as something no one can ever stop, haunting the waters, proclaiming that there are some pains that will never be healed; triumphs that can never be reached; just because.

So often, we are told that there is always a choice to make things right. Always a way to make our lives better. That misfortune and injustice will not triumph in the end. Well. I have slept in a car without a home; been rejected for jobs so basic a monkey could do them and for no real reason; been denied the chance to live in better situations by the unnatural invention that is credit scores; have pounded my head time and time again against metaphorical walls only to find that while others have easily cracked these bricks, as we all hear about in the media, I, though just like them, doing the exact same thing they did, have only a bloody skull to show for my pain and effort. Just because.

As one can imagine, Ahab’s torment and determination to prove just this once that the little nobody can defy the universe struck me so deeply that Melville’s writing frightened me. How could a book from almost 200 years ago seemingly be writing about the socio-economic, spiritual struggles I and countless others deal with right now? Thus, though I knew the Pequod and Ahab’s fate, I could not help but wonder, too, about this theoretical future where that unnatural, uncompromising thing could be slain. Maybe then I, too, could have a fair chance in this modern world, filled with forces I can never beat . . .

“There is a Wisdom that is Woe; but There is a Woe that is Madness.”

Though there is plenty of nautical adventure and psycho-drama to be had in this tale, and many underlying conversations about humanity’s economic, spiritual, and existential prisons in this world, Melville dedicates so much, probably far too much, of the book to boring, academic journal-grade scientific essays on just what the heck whales are. Yet, despite the frustrating nature of these chapters, there is a method to Melville’s madness.

At first, the whale is characterized, and fixed in the reader’s imagination, as a beast more out of a mythical eldritch dimension than, ya know, an ordinary animal you can see at an aquarium. You start to buy into the idea that the whales are alien creatures and Moby Dick, with its unnatural whiteness, is the king of these inhuman kaiju. For how else could nature create such a thing humans cannot fully understand, if we are supposedly the inheritors of the Earth? After all, as the first chapter declares, we long for the ocean, and this realm we sail upon every day should be ours. If we belong there, nature should accommodate us, not threaten our destruction by such colossal beasts. Accounts from other ships about Moby Dick, revealing how the white whale swiftly comes and destroys anyone in its path like a terrible storm, exacerbates this interpretation.

Yet, when the Pequod starts making their kills of common whales, ripping their corpses apart for their precious oil with cold-blooded methodology, this mystic fades away. Yes, in the context of the book, the whale is the herald for how little we humans really are in this world, and how there are some things we just cannot ever stop. But as the reader sees the whale more like a living, breathing part of nature, the prior disdain dims. Unlike the rose-tinted interpretation of that first chapter, Ishamel and I started seeing the ocean, and all it represents for humanity’s spirit, as something much more complex; a place we can only hope to witness, never be a part of, for we do not belong in the land of whales and all their meaning. I, too, had seen Moby Dick as some unnatural predator, but as the story went on, I began to wonder if, despite what it symbolizes, Ahab would be better off accepting defeat of what he cannot change.

Maybe Moby Dick just is, and we just are, and that is that.

“. . . Only Found Another Orphan.”

At long, long last, the white whale is found at the very end of Melville’s perfectly dreamy novel. Immediately when I saw this white whale so perfectly in my mind’s eye, once believed to be a monster, an enemy of humanity’s struggle to be soulfully free in this world, I simply remarked:

“It’s beautiful.”

Moby Dick is, more or less, a god, and I realized that Ahab’s quest was absurd. Nothing could kill this god. The whale, though reminding me of every cruel laugh made at my expense by my socio-economic wardens in this life, was just a whale, and should not be disturbed.

The truth is, Ahab knows so, too. He is not as foolish as the crew may think. He knows Moby Dick cannot be killed; that what the animal represents in his mind cannot be defeated; that he will die, and he does not want to. But when humanity is told they cannot ever travel in space faster than light, millions of scientists around the world daydream and hypothesize how to make FTL drives anyway. The same goes for Ahab’s hunt for the white whale. People cannot help themselves but to try and face the impossible, for good and for ill, because they cannot stand their personal prisons; cannot accept that sometimes we are just little nothings in a universe too big for us.

Thus, the novel ends exactly as you would expect, and Melville’s 1851 book left me in 2024 with facts of life to ponder, and ponder, and ponder . . .

“Go the Distance”.

So, no, Moby Dick is not about how revenge is bad, represented by a nut with a peg leg and a hatred for a disobedient whale. Yet this example of mistaken theme is nothing new.

Another example of the deeper theme being sadly lost in the cultural zeitgeist is 1976’s Rocky. Commonly, the film is summarized as an underdog story in which Rocky Balboa, a scrappy nobody, heroically trains to fight a boxing opponent he cannot win against and triumphs, proving dreams come true. However, when one actually watches the film, Rocky is a romance story of self-redemption; a real and cathartic drama about how and why people give up on themselves and the agonizing struggle to regain the self-belief stolen from you. That you are more than just a failed loser. (Golly, what a life-saving film for me).

We all have our own interpretations of story themes that define the general consensus (those of you who watch OBA’s “Let’s Talk Stories” podcast have heard ours about The Lion King). Stories themselves often contradict the themes applied and assigned to them. What is terrific is that finding different themes within stories leads to different avenues of imagination that are all yours to be inspired from and use as creative fuel. Before, maybe you ignored Moby Dick as a boring revenge allegory—there are millions of them. Now, maybe you see Melville’s book as an example of how to take a subject (nautical adventure) and fuse it with timeless existentialism.

If you feel there are no more themes to explore that have not already been perfectly said by your favorite tales, first, know that you have a spin on these themes that matter and are inherently original by just being yourself. Then, seek out the unpopular themes in stories. Fresh perspectives that have gotten lost in the general conversation and pop culture summaries. Imagine what new insights you can gain and how these forgotten themes can enhance your dramas, your monsters, and your adventures. These unpopular thematic waters go deeper than we can know. What new and great stories are yet to be discovered!

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💬 Comment below:

• Have you ever read Moby Dick?

• What story surprised you with a theme that was deeper than you expected?

“Big Things Have Small Beginnings”.

Sometimes, our first impressions do not last forever. Like people, stories can grow along with us, and the greatest ones defy wisdom and become something special.

Take the saga of Mad Max. Officially, this film series is an Australian post-apocalyptic tale about an anti-hero with his iconic V-8 Interceptor car trying to survive brutal gangs in a lawless wasteland. He often gets caught in someone else’s troubles, and, ultimately, helps them, transforming into a kind of wandering legend.

Infatuated with the very concept, before I even watched the series, I daydreamed of inconceivable deserts filled with crazy folk and those trying to survive. Fast, bizarre, and wild cars. A looney-but-a-goody hero. Practical stunt work, crazy costumes, pedal-to-the-metal ferocity . . . a world that has gone mad and the good people who are trying to stay sane.

I initially tried out the series watching the first film in 2015, then again with the rest of the installments in 2024, I was taken on a rollercoaster of a cinematic journey that proved to me that stories, like us, may start out not knowing what they are doing and become something epic.

Mad Max: Rock Bottom.

I hate this film and never want to watch this one again.

(Somehow, in my attempts to finish this series, I have actually seen this film three times).

I will not say the picture is without merit. The DIY nature of this low-budget piece is admirable, the opening chase scene feels dangerous and is rather good. There is a meaningful theme about the fear of going mad like the rest of the world and, after suffering tragedy, going nuts.

I will also give this particular film credit in affecting the rest of the series: Max’s leg is shot and, in each subsequent film, he walks and runs thanks to the help of an improvised metal contraption, his leg forever broken.

But otherwise, for me personally, there is a seriously unpleasant, moronic, tedious, and uninteresting nature about this film that predominantly feels like spending time with half-comprehensible, “crazy” bad guys. The supposedly fun stunts and looney spirit of the series was not here at all, just some bargain basement stupidity. My disdain for the lead star, Mel Gibson, does not help, admittedly. But more particularly, the renowned hero he plays, Max Rockatansky, is not appealing at all. He is neither interesting nor terrible. His backstory consists solely of his wife and child being murdered by a gang in front of him. Now he is a tormented soul driving across a dystopian—soon to be post-apocalyptic—Australia. Dungeons & Dragons characters are more dynamic.

Without getting into every nitty gritty detail, with each viewing, the film went from being okay, to inconsequential, to borderline intolerable for me. I could not understand the appeal of the film at all. But, I thought maybe the series could get better. So, I pushed onward.

Mad Max 2: Better, But Still Nothing.

Well, at least I got some desert stunt action.

Thankfully, the elements that created my borderline hatred of the first film are not here. This sequel film has much more of the crazed gear-head action I was hoping for. Yet, again, personally speaking, this sequel does not have a lot for me to care about. I need the tale to be either more heart-wrenching or more goofy.

The innocent folk Max is supposed to save are generic. The baddies they are fighting are also generic, and I do not find their BDSM outfits to be that compelling. Frankly, I don’t buy this world as a horrifying place, and, so, I don’t buy the gangs’ insanity, (which feels more like high school-grade acting than actually being disturbed), nor the desperation the piece tries to impart upon me. I like Max’s dog, but…I think anyone can guess why I bring this particular hound up in my list of complaints. The stunts are cool, the finale chase is pretty neat, but nothing sticks in my memory as being special.

What bugged me most was Max himself. Again, Gibson plays him not as, well, “Mad Max”: a guy a bit on the wild side of humanity. Instead, he plays him like a Hollywood hero: strutting around with snarky grins when he is not being egotistically stand-offish. I always imagined Max was the last good guy to help the innocent in this dead world. Instead, he is just a survivor—watching people get hurt from a safe distance and only helping these survivors because he can gain from them. Even when he does help them, it feels begrudging. Yet the film frames him as a mighty folk hero.

His bad attitude comes from his poor, generic wife and child dying in front of him. Well, to quote Rocket Raccoon from Guardians of the Galaxy:

“‘Oh, boo-hoo, my wife and child are dead!’ . . . I don’t care if it’s mean! Everybody's got dead people! It's no excuse to get everybody else dead along the way!”

In fact, one of the survivors Max gets involved with even calls him out on this very point! But Max is supposed to be our ‘80s action hero, and, so, he is not given any more nuance.

I was glad to get the bad taste of the first film out of my mouth, but moving on from this sequel, I hoped for something better.

Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome: So Close and So Far . . .

A popular meme can explain my feelings for me:

At first, Beyond Thunderdome finally gave me what I wanted in this series. An interesting plot centering around nuanced socio-political dynamics in this post-apocalyptic world. An exciting aesthetic in the central setting, Barter Town. Tina Turner as the antagonist, Aunty Entity, the leader of Barter Town—capable, fashionable, cool, and delightful. Max battles a fearsome opponent in the original and exciting death arena: the titular Thunderdome. “Two men enter! One man leaves!” YES!

But then the film went belly-up. Well, mostly.

Instead of exploring this compelling setting, Max gets exiled from Barter Town into the desert and gets roped in with a tribe of children with their own religion, language, and methods of survival. They are youths who survived a plane crash during the end times and have been waiting for their pilot, whom they assume is Max, to return and bring them to sanctuary. Eventually, Max (who, in his typical selfish jerk fashion, does not treat the kids well) and the tribe get involved with Barter Town again, and he does make a sacrifice play to let the kids fly free to their hopeful sanctuary of what is left of the city of Sydney.

Honestly, I could end up liking this film in time. Unfortunately, the switch in plot right in the middle of the film threw me off so much I disconnected from the rest of the flick. I thought the first part was much more interesting.

Thankfully, I did enjoy this film more than the last ones, and there is even an insane stunt involving the side of a moving train that sticks with me. I would be a liar if I said the climax did not have some emotional effect on me. Yes, Max himself still sucks, and the tale is nothing special for me, but this is the first entry in the series I actually enjoyed, even if in a small way.

Beyond Thunderdome gave me some optimism for the next entry, the famous installment that was nominated for an Academy Award for Best Picture.

Mad Max: Fury Road: Nirvana.

Last year, I wrote this review, rewarding the piece my rare rating of 5 out of 5 stars.

Mythic. Epic. Emotional. Refreshing. Rebellious. Thematic. Empowering. Tragic. Uplifting. Awe-inspiring. Original. Captivating. Imaginative. Gripping. Transportive. Exciting. Thrilling. Intelligent, as the series finally gives a plot worth giving a darn about with real characters having real stories to tell in a world that uses this post-apocalyptic setting wisely.

Like when I first saw Alien, I could not think of how the filmmakers made this film. Like a kid, I felt I was right inside this picture, verbally interacting with the tale. I have absolutely no qualms with placing this action film among the greatest legends of the genre, such as, say, Terminator 2: Judgement Day or The Matrix, which is enormous praise coming from me. Witness this film, seriously. Oh, what a picture! What a lovely picture!

This magnificent film is an instant, modern classic.

For one matter, Max, now played by Tom Hardy, is an improvement. He is actually crazy, nearly animalistic, and though ravaged by guilt for not being able to save people, his bad attitude is not rewarded nor estimated proudly. In fact, he truly changes in his journey to help the sublime heroine, Furiosa, bring a group of abused women to a better place, far from their evil pursuers who perfectly represent everything wrong with toxic masculinity and the patriarchy. Ultimately, despite being broken, Max chooses to be a hero without any selfishness and, thanks to Furiosa, learns there is hope for him yet. Beautiful.

Another matter of sheer beauty: Furiosa, played majestically by Charlize Theron. Furiosa is phenomenal. A heroine easily worthy of standing side by side with another beloved action lady: Ellen Ripley of the Alien series. Furiosa’s story is an example of how stories can strike the heart in the best of ways. She is the tale’s applicable Odysseus of The Odyssey, longing to return to a home taken from her. I myself suffer the same curse—exiled from California at 13 years old by financial ruin to the unhappy place that is Georgia, and, by the same causes, unable to traverse my own wasteland back home. What Furiosa discovers on her quest as she nobly tries to save these women from the heinous “men” hunting them down, is anguish that nearly destroyed my poor heart . . .

. . . and, yet, without compromise or lies, Fury Road also gives Furiosa a real hope, thanks in part to Max’s help, and gave me one, too. There is a future place for us to call home, and witnessing Furiosa learn this truth stirred a power inside me I could not believe. What a gift. What a blessing.

I was so moved by Fury Road that I worried the upcoming Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga, whose trailer motivated me to try this series again in the first place, would disappoint me. I almost did not see the film in the theater because of this fear.

Almost.

Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga: Nirvana Part Two.

Accompanied by my siblings, we drove almost an hour away to what I affectionately call, “The Last Dive Theater.” This small AMC Theater in a dead mall (the same bloody one I saw Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny in, curse those chairs!) is humble with good staff, but boy is it a seeming remnant of the ‘90s. I kind of dig it, to be honest. Anyhow, in one of the last showings of Furiosa, we three sat with only a few other people in a lowly house that did not start playing the movie until I asked management about the issue.

Nevertheless, per my film review of this picture:

Dreamy. Nightmarish. Wild. Unbelievable. Visceral. Soulful. Epic. An intense theater experience I am glad, even in the equivalent of a dive, I got to have. Here is a film that left my heart racing and my imagination running wild. Making a magnificent prior picture and glorious character even better, this dark, mesmerizing film cements the titular character as a modern legend; an icon of action for our times. I am still reeling from this picture. Oh, I will remember Furiosa.

If Fury Road is more like Meatloaf’s Bat out of Hell album, then Furiosa is, awesomely, more like a Florence+The Machine album. I felt trapped in a nightmare in that theater, and did not want the surrealism before me to end. I was in awe that Chris Hemsworth, an actor who I felt in the past could barely perform, played the villainous Dementus perfectly. I marvelled at how Anya Taylor-Joy played the young Furiosa with a scary-level of magnificence. The tale builds upon ideas and themes from Fury Road, including Furiosa’s longing for home, which, again, affected my heart deeply. My siblings and I left the theater with our hearts pounding like motor engines.

I was so moved by this film in particular that I ended up making this video for fun. (A hard one to make). When I recently re-watched the film, I was still in awe over how this cast and crew created a film unlike any other. Amazing.

The All-Mighty Takeaway.

If series creator, director, and writer, George Miller, a madman from Australia who, like the great David Lynch, did not originally come from a cinema background, had listened to my wishes, Fury Road and Furiosa never would have happened. He could have seen his growing talent and imagination as folly, and given up after that first Mad Max picture.

Instead, Miller, (based on my research on the man), practiced and practiced his craft. That first Mad Max film is one I kind of hate. But 36 years later, he created Fury Road, and nine years after that, Furiosa: two pictures that have genuinely changed me and the way I look at movies. Miller accomplished this feat by not quitting on his belief in his skills while also letting himself continuously grow as a filmmaker. Instead of being stuck on what I consider a near total failure of a film, Miller persevered, discovering more about himself and his art to create masterpieces I have fallen in love with.

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While I make no claims to any excellence in my own writing, I have been writing with intent for 18 years and only first felt comfortable and stable with my work 4 years ago. If I ever tell a story another soul loves as much as I do Fury Road and Furiosa, then I will confidently say: at first, I sucked at storytelling; just like, in my mind, George Miller did. I presented a brief review of each installment of this series to show you the remarkable evolution of this saga because I want to instill within you a truth. As writers, we all suck, at first. But, so long as we continue practicing our craft and letting ourselves grow as people, we will get better and better. The trick is to not listen to anyone but yourself while leaving room in your heart and mind to change, experiment, look to the horizon.

If the first Mad Max was a failure, then said failure was a signpost on Miller’s quest to creating two modern works of cinematic myth. Do not give up after a failure or criticism: these misfires and hard times are likely the next step in your ongoing journey as a storyteller in all the right ways.

Got a story in the works that you want to make sure is aimed toward being a success rather than a failure? OBA’s story team is here for you! Submit your work in progress for a FREE editing session with our panel of story coaches!

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“Airplanes are Beautiful, Cursed Dreams.”

Hayao Miyazaki. A man whose reputation in cinema as one of the founders of the renowned Studio Ghibli and director of a filmography of masterpieces proceeds him. An enormous influence on me personally and countless others, both philosophically and artistically. Miyazaki is a living legend who I, and many others, could write on and on about for good reason. If you are not familiar with Miyazaki, stop what you are doing right now and, for starters, go watch Kiki’s Delivery Service, a serious contender, in my personal view of the world, for the single greatest film of all time.

But Miyazaki is a real person, and so there is a deeply layered truth to who the man is that offers a very important lesson for both us storytellers and ordinary folk.

To bring a ton of anime history down to an effective, brief summary, Miyazaki’s reputation in the late ‘90s and early 2000s–when his presence was first felt like a meteor strike across the world–was manufactured. Yes, he is a genius, but his godhood image, an almost Uncle Walt (Disney) of Anime façade, was curated by executives in Japan and the U.S., such as Studio Ghibli’s distributor at the time: Disney, the House of Mouse itself. Thus, as a boy, I saw him solely in that light for I was too young to look any deeper.

By the time I was a teenager, which was when Disney parted from Ghibli, reality about who Miyazaki really was became public knowledge. The truth was a little hard to take at first. When I wrote my review for Miyazaki’s last picture, The Boy and the Heron, I summarized this truth, based on my years of familiarity with and study of the man’s career, as such:

For Miyazaki, in all my years of research, is a good man; an honorable one who sticks to his noble convictions. If for nothing else, he is painfully self-aware of what he truly is. Yet, hidden by the Ghibli and Disney marketing machine when the studio became big in the United States, the man is so fair and foul, too. His toxic perfectionism; his hypocrisy, or at least unjust paradoxes; his harsh treatment of his son, Ghibli director Goro Miyazaki; the severe work abuses he puts his animators through; the list of his mistakes goes on and on.

Miyazaki always struck me as a man who hates the fact that he is human, which I sympathize with. I admire that he works his damndest to make positive, if brutally honest, pictures. However, the irony that Princess Mononoke’s themes stand against the very practices that got the film made is very difficult to ignore. The man continues, to this very day, to work on anime films but endlessly bemoans how much anime is awful and his career was a mistake. He once said he would love to see Studio Ghibli burn to the ground. For better or worse, I am not accusing the man of anything he has not already said before about himself, and without pride, too.

To put the matter in another way, I refer to this very accurate meme comparing Miyazaki with another living legend, Junji Ito, the renowned horror mangaka:

This contrast is not difficult to spot, but it can be difficult to understand.

“It’s Over. Everything’s Over. The Forest is Dead.”

If one reads any of Miyazaki’s writings, like his reflections on his career in the biographies Starting Point and Turning Point, or watches unfiltered footage of the man, they will find him, in between drags of his cigarettes, complaining. A lot. About a lot of things, both serious and inconsequential. As a child born smack-dab in the middle of World War II, the man has long nurtured a disapproval of this flawed world with its many heinous people, ideals, and common cruelties. This anger is seen no better than in Miyazaki’s Princess Mononoke, one of the most influential films upon me. In short, this film tells the story of two sympathetic groups of people in conflict with each other, trying to survive a world that threatens to destroy them, leading to an apocalypse unlike any ever seen on film. (Put a pin on this topic for later).

Hate permeates nearly every shot of this unbearably gorgeous achievement of animators. (To his credit, Miyazaki, unlike ole’ Uncle Walt, actually drew frames for most of his films). Princess Mononoke is violent; brutal; and suffocating in its panic and fury over a world that, though filled with beauty and good people, indulgently propels itself forward into catastrophe as only the beast called man could cause. The great video essayist, “Bennet the Sage,” on his show, Anime Abandon, accurately characterized Princess Mononoke as Miyazaki letting loose all his wrath over how bad this world is and continues to be, as only a former-idealist can.

Trust me, I get where Miyazaki is coming from.

The filmmaker’s agonized wrath is blatant throughout his filmography. The bombings and pro-war insanity in Howl’s Moving Castle as criticism of El Presidente Bush’s bombings in the Middle-East, (critiqued also in Green Day’s song, “Holiday”). His anti-fascist critiques in Porco Rosso. His fear that Earth herself will burn up thanks to man in the action-packed Naussica of the Valley of the Wind from 1984 or the innocent Ponyo from 2008. Even his screenplay for Whisper of the Heart carries a serious concern for young people and their futures that stems from his worry over what world children will inherit; a fear that feels, frankly, straight from Holden Caulfield of J.D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye.

People hate and kill each other; decimate their planet, their only home; openly and proudly lie; think nothing of themselves; and no matter what happens or what anyone does, they deliberately choose not to change, hiding behind some proclaimed crap about how beautiful free will is. Miyazaki and I cannot ignore these truths and we cannot change them. So we wallow in our rage against the dying of goodness that maybe was never there to begin with.

Except this fact, much like Miyazaki’s unpleasant nature as a leader, is not the whole truth for either of us, wherein lies hope.

“Nothing is Over. The Two of Us Are Still Alive.”

Despite his worthy but exhausting chagrin against the world in ways great and small, Miyazaki is, undeniably, one of the most enchanting filmmakers in all the world. From Lupin III: The Castle of Cagliostro, Future Boy Conan, the early episodes of Sherlock Hound, My Neighbor Totoro, Laputa: Castle in the Sky (in my imagination, the only rival against Raiders of the Lost Ark as the greatest adventure film of all time), to Spirited Away. . . there are no other films or series that feel like those directed by Miyazaki.

These works are sublimely gorgeous to behold. The sound effects are stand out. The music, often composed by the Joe Hisaishi, is transportive. These films are fun, playful, exciting, and watching them feels like being lost in a world that was always waiting for you. The characters are likeable and deal with struggles we can all relate to: the yearning for self-acceptance, the noble difficulty in pursuing heroism, or the fight against incomprehensible fear when you are just so small.

Moreso, within these fanciful stories lie great, timeless morals. The need for us to accept love over our inherent lusts for power in order for us all to survive, just to name one. His darker stories are filled with this same affectionate tone and atmosphere, such as the odd-but-true romance between Sophie and Howl in Howl’s Moving Castle. Miyazaki’s last two films, 2013’s The Wind Rises and 2023’s The Boy and the Heron, have distinguishable elements of the man reflecting on his own career. Instead of defending his hypocritical actions, he seems to lay them bare and judge them poorly, offering answers to his ways but not excuses; a progressive statement from the filmmaker.

Put simply, despite Miyazaki’s inherent darkness, his films are filled with hope. Indeed, Princess Mononoke does not end with the end of everything, but with rebirth. One more real chance for a better world. A hope that is born out of love, not hate.

“Kiki, look! It’s me!”

Why is Miyazaki so cynical, yet his films are undeniably comfort cinema—positively life-changing stories that continue to make people smile and encourage them to be better humans? Miyazaki himself gives us the answer:

“I'm not going to make movies that tell children, ‘You should despair and run away.’”

Another statement of his:

“I would like to make a film to tell children, "It's good to be alive.’"

His films certainly follow these declarations.

Without compromising on reflecting truthfully what the real world is like, Miyazaki has chosen to make sure even his darkest tales are filled with warmth and hope. They are each piercingly beautiful to watch. Instead of dragging everyone else down with him or criticizing any sense of hope, Miyazaki continues to choose the harder mindset: to be optimistic despite everything about reality telling him otherwise. Instead of devastating films that offer nothing but upset hearts, Miyazaki’s stories are filled with friendly forest spirits, wondrous airplanes, comical pirates, brave girls and boys, and a sense there are still good people in this world.

As a testament to Miyazaki and his fellow filmmakers’ genius, during 2020, amongst the lockdowns, I re-watched all of Studio Ghibli’s filmography up to that point. For, regardless of their often heavy nature that can leave me in unhappy tears, (I am looking at you, Pom Poko), these are stories that, more often than not, leave me in tears of joy. (Again, if you are finishing this article and have not ever seen Kiki’s Delivery Service, why are you not following my prior advice?). They comfort, inspire, and warm this weary heart of mine. They are special treats that I can never get enough of. Heck, my long-standing project, Cosmos, first began with the working title, The Sci-Fi Film Studio Ghibli Never Made, and I took early inspiration from the Miyazaki-directed music video, “On Your Mark”: another glorious piece of animation.

Despite his personal despair and flawed nature, by choosing to reflect optimism and hope in his work, Miyazaki has, in a small but undeniable way that will be nurtured and endure throughout the years long after he is gone, helped make the better world he dreams about. Imagine what you and I can do if we choose to do the same with the way we tell our stories. We can carry on the legacy of hope for a brighter tomorrow, despite all odds. What a wonderful world that can be.

More related storytelling lessons:

Oh, good, the title worked. Now that I have your attention…

For anyone who knows me, a theater kid, they know I definitely watched the absolutely free and live June 7th, 2025 broadcast of that day’s Broadway performance of Good Night and Good Luck. Not just because I was absolutely giddy that a live performance was going to be televised for free, but also for the story being told.

The play is an adaptation of the 2005 film of the same name. Set during the 1950s, the tale chronicles the reports from the real life journalist Edward Murrow of CBS News against the junior senator Joseph McCarthy’s open and, for a time, unstoppable dismantling of United States law to destroy anyone he did not deem fit to live in the country. Murrow and his journalist crew do their research and writing work to publicly stand up to this conniving and moronic man by dishing out the straight and undeniable facts about what he was doing to the sacred republic and her people.

(Parallels to the past ten years are obvious, I would gladly buy Terry Moran of ABC News a drink, moving on.)

But one specific moment in the play, (other than the eloquent reference to William Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar), resonated with me because the scene reminded me of a conversation I had with one of my dear, dear friends recently. He mentioned how too many people try to absolve wrongdoers by saying things like,

“All in all, they’re not that bad of a person. They mean well, at least.”

The problem is that the most destructive of us can “mean well” all we want, yet still be the hurtful villain in someone else’s story.

In the play, one character, fearful of where their public campaign against McCarthy’s majority wickedness is leading him and his wife, says, in a moment of doubt, maybe the junior senator is right to an extent. Maybe their fight against him will, in the future, be deemed wrong, because McCarthy, well, he is not really that bad of a guy; he means well, at least.

The slow poison we have been forced to gulp of the false narratives set by millennia of colonialist, oppressive ideologies, reinforced today by the new face of American patriotism, has screwed our perspective on what honor is, whether we realize so or not. Our standards of human decency have gotten confused with the hardness we need to stay alive, competing against a system hellbent on capitalistic greed.

To survive, we can easily become cold and cruel in this world, and have our own stories corrupted by the evil that is reigning supreme right now. Because how do you fight an enemy at their own game without becoming another pawn in their game? How do you fight a villain without becoming a villain?

I told my sister who watched the play with me something I have said before, and bears repeating.

Other alternatives for this vital life lesson include Mr. Fred Rogers; Steve from Blue’s Clues; Paddington Bear; or an OBA mainstay, Superman.

We all know Pooh Bear, either from the Disney animations, A.A. Milline’s original stories, or, heck, even these wonderful videos by cartoonist Doobus Goobus. Thus, this litmus test should be applicable for all of us:

Would Winnie the Pooh happily get along with you?

Rule of thumb.

“The Prince was Spoiled, Selfish, and Unkind.”

While some may disagree with me and argue that they mean well, I remain deeply disturbed to see millions upon millions of common people choosing to see the undeniably spoiled, selfish, and unkind humans who run the United States as champions of ideologies and causes they believe in. Chief among these crusades being the silencing, disgracing, and dismantling of anyone who is not a monetarily popular, White, and heterosexual male with a party-approved background.

As a someone who, in college, was once forced to listen to a fellow student’s impromptu treatise declaring how a college event promoting the idea that all peoples deserve a chance to be heard in this modern world objectively broken by centuries of slavery and imperialism was, in fact, destroying our culture; as someone whose dear friend said their cousin declared they wanted to buy a commercial flight ticket from the east coast to Los Angeles and help violently fight protesters this June; as someone who interacts, directly and indirectly, with fanatic supporters of these ideals every time I need to get groceries; I know firsthand that even this “greatest” country is full of, to be blunt, flat-out bullies.

We all went to school with these mean people. Some of you, like me, probably were tortured by them and watched others be abused by them. Well, now, folks just like them run the United States with orgasmic impunity and zealous supporters declaring their worship of these bullies. While we ordinary people have no real political power, this timeline we are bound came to pass in strong part because too many chose to be selfish and unkind, gloating their admiration and allegiance to those who, too, are selfish and unkind.

This was all that their real power to change the world could accomplish.

“There is a Magic Deeper Still…”

Here is the sad truth: concerning sweeping political change, you and I are not going to change anything. Ever.

Our raging against the dying of the light is a noble effort, but I suspect it will ultimately amount to us griping and accomplishing nothing because we have jobs to work so we can survive the game set to always let the powers that be end up on top. The sad fact is that the rich political bullies can afford to ignore and overlook unwealthy nobodies like us. For a variety of reasons that are not our faults, we are never going to change the political landscape of this world.

We are powerless.

However. By this same token:

I have said all these words not to discourage, but to point out to you where real power lies. For we always, always have one true, great power: to be selfless and kind.

Instead of filling our social media, our social interactions, and our work with greed and brutality, with hatred and persecution, poisoning our thoughts and hope, we have the power to tell a better story. We can be, well, the characters I said we could be. Winnie the Pooh. Mr. Fred Rogers. Steve. Paddington Bear. Superman.

Look around us and understand how this world has been made so, so much worse by the narcissistic and antagonistic tendencies that have been championed by a society run wild on this metaphorical sugar. These ideas and attitudes written into previous generations put us here, and continuing them keeps us where we are. Now, imagine how this world can be healed and made so, so much better by considerate and open-hearted practices within a culture running steadily on a metaphorical balanced diet.

As we fight to dismantle the false narratives that have wrought so much destruction on our world for so long, we must be watchful that the foundation for the better story we are trying to tell stays as pure as Winnie the Pooh.

“Humans Need Fantasy to be Human”.

On opening weekend, I saw Superman (2025), and, as I did as a young teenager, I believed a man could fly. That there really was someone like Clark Kent who was so kind and would save us from great and terrible threats like Lex Luthor. But the truth is that Superman is a fantasy. There is no good man who will fly and stop the Russian government from killing Ukrainians; no Kansas farmer in a red cape who will stop corrupt government administrations from hurting others, including you; no punk rocker with an S-shield on their chest who will save the abandoned, forgotten children.

But making such a hero real is not the purpose of this film. The purpose is to dream of the fantasy of Superman.

We cannot make change unless we can see a better world. Since we do not always see such heroic kindness from the Man of Tomorrow in our daily lives to convince us the impossible is possible, we need fiction, mere fantasies, to first place the ideas in our heads. Fiction lets folk like him be truly seen with our minds’ eyes. Superman (2025) is not here to make our problems go away. Superman (2025) is here to put these wondering thoughts inside us:

“What if there was such a hero in this world? In my community? What if I could be such a person? I cannot lift a falling building or prevent people from getting shot, but I can be selfless and kind to other people like Superman. Just little things, here and there, every day . . .”

But before people can turn these heroic ideas into muscle memory, they need to believe in things that do not exist easily in this universe. For, as Terry Pratchett once said in his Discworld novel, Hogfather,

“You have to start out learning to believe the little lies, to start believing in the big ones: Justice. Mercy. Duty.”

We need fantasy to plant these seeds of good in our vicious minds. Which is why folks invented characters like Superman; Paddington Bear; Steve; Mr. Fred Rogers; Winnie the Pooh.

“The Fault, Dear Brutus, is Not in Our Stars, But in Ourselves.”

Be someone that spectacular Bear of Very Little Brain would get along with beautifully, because this act is the one power no one in the world can take away from us under any circumstances. Greater, never forget that we fell into this mess because of people who believed false narratives taught by societies that promote a toxic, cruel culture; though certainly not overnight, we can get out of this disaster by promoting the exact opposite world through our deeds and the fantasies we share with each other.

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Write your stories with people folks can call their “comfort characters.” Keep the fantasy of goodness alive in your stories and be glad you can be so decent yourself. Or, if your tales walk the wilder, darker sides of this world, be the fantasy of kindness on your social media pages and your interactions. Not as a responsibility, but as a sharing in and of a gift. You may not be able to stop someone like McCarthy, but when you see them in our world, you will know better than to say, “This guy is okay.” You will keep the spark that will defeat them — and endure them — alive.

Let the fault of a better world be upon the words you write, from the foundation of the person you are, and we will come to a better place.

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