Decent spoilers for the Hulu Series The Bear (2022).

“Quite a lot of science fiction isn’t about what it’s about.”

I really like this quote. I think about it a lot, whether it’s when I’m reading a book or writing a book or thinking about writing a book–usually more of the latter, if the frequency of my posts here are any indication. Stories that “aren’t about what they’re about” are great because they make you think, not just about whatever is on the page but also the events or experiences that must have inspired them. Yeah, Dune is about a messianic young man who obtains the power to conquer all of interstellar civilization by controlling the legendary spice melange. It’s also a rather apt metaphor for Cold War relations between the US and USSR throughout the mid-to-late twentieth century, and perhaps an echo of the push for environmentalism that was birthed with Silent Spring which was published three years prior. There’s a lot of things that Dune is about.

Simply put, a lot of good science fiction works are able to establish a world that might be vastly different from the one we inhabit, with aliens or laser gun-swords or psychedelic drugs that bestow prescience upon humans, and yet still be able to offer a thoughtful observation on something more real, more grounded. Continuing with the Dune example, Frank Herbert’s commentary on Cold War tensions and our society’s disregard for our planet are made stronger, in a way, by presenting these ideas through a futuristic narrative. We find ourselves seeing through the eyes of various characters or factions and questioning their motives and agreeing (or not) with their beliefs. Why do we sympathize with the Fremen? Why do the political machinations of the Houses, as ludicrous as they may be, feel so familiar? How am I interpreting what they’re saying, what does this mean about the fundamental debate that the author wants to explore? What is this work really saying?

Now, there’s a word for this in literary analysis, and not a particularly complex one. Theme. You’ve probably heard it at least a few times in, like, every English class ever. I’m not saying that every narrative needs to have some kind of theme, because that’s a stupid, redundant statement. Every work has a theme, but the way it’s presented is important, too. Some works keep their true message right on the nose, air it out like laundry—think Vin Diesel staring past the camera and droning “I don’t got friends, I got family” in a great big “this was the real lesson all along” ending. There’s nothing wrong with this, really; plenty of famous literary works do this. 1984 is really just talking about the threats of a dystopian, totalitarian society, and Little Women doesn’t hold hidden commentary on American politics throughout the Civil War Reconstruction. Still, I personally find that exploration of a work’s theme becomes so much more interesting when it becomes juxtaposed with a seemingly disparate world, where events far more fantastical and eye-popping happen compared to the relatively droll humdrum of our lives, and still manages to find insightful parallels.

With all that said, let’s talk about The Bear.

The Bear isn’t a work of science fiction, or even a novel; it’s an eight-episode series on Hulu released this year that focuses on a young chef’s struggles to restore his dead brother’s Chicago sandwich shop from zero to… well, a little bit more. The world is set in our present day, with the least plausible event in the show being a street trade of several 1944 Big-E Redline denim jeans and a bag of quarters for nearly two hundred pounds of beef. There’s a lot to like in the show. The show is frantic and absurdly gripping, the scenes of in-the-kitchen madness giving a feverish, anxiety-ridden rush that left me exhausted after each episode. The characters are well-written and wonderfully portrayed, with Richie (Ebon Moss-Bachrach) and Sydney (Ayo Edebiri) being my two favorite characters. Richie is a “love-to-hate-him” kind of guy, always a bit too big for his britches and ready to start swinging, but there’s a sadness to him, too, evident in the silence that hangs over him during cigarette breaks or the rare phone call with his joint-custody daughter. Sydney, the newest chef at the establishment, is as much a catalyst for the restaurant as she is for her colleagues. Even with her moments of brilliance she feels refreshingly green, prone to bouts of Gen Z slang and moments of self-doubt, painted just vulnerable enough for the viewer to cheer her on. And of course there’s lead character Carmy (Jeremy Allen-White). Haggard, fucked-up Carmy, beaten but not broken. He alternates between fights with Richie and stewing in the misery of his past, his eyes locked in a thousand-yard gaze at the terror of tomorrow all the while. These are fantastic, electrifying characters.

What I loved most about the show, though, was that The Bear isn’t about what it’s about. It’s a show about the perils of the food industry, but it’s not. It takes what could be a fictional Kitchen Nightmares episode and peels back the wallpaper; there’s something deeper in its writing and characters, a lurking theme that puppets the shape of a Chicago sandwich shop and only reveals itself as an occasional shadow on the wall. The banter isn’t just banter, it’s a glimpse into the stressful interactions between members of The Beef as their personalities take root and flourish, from pain to love to hate to discovery. What The Bear is about is a show about (cue Vin Diesel) family. The gaping hole that is introduced in the first few minutes of the first episode is the suicide of Carmy’s brother, Mike, leaving Carmy to replace him as the owner of his restaurant. I was initially surprised at how little his death is mentioned. Bits and pieces slip out as the occasional reminder, always hinting towards something that doesn’t quite make sense yet. We see Carmy stressed out beyond all belief, having episodes of dissociation late at night, but it’s always about the restaurant, never once from grief or loss. Or so it seems. The perfect Mike-shaped hole in the center of all this chaos and emotion, sliced out with a cookie cutter and left to bake in the oven, itched at me the more I watched, and it itches at the characters, too, until the pressure roils and threatens to pop. 

It’s not until the final episode that the details about Mike come out, but the signs are all there well before. The constant Carmy and Richie in the kitchen comes from their love for Mike, one as a brother and the other as a best friend. The restaurant holds their last memories of him, as painful and ugly as they may be, and one can’t stand what it was while the other hates what it’s becoming. And so they fight. And shout. And get stabbed. And go to jail. Because while they can, while they can still fight for their own way, that flickering whisper of Mike remains lit, a whisper of everything he was to them. That is what the constant drama and abuse of the food industry means to them. That is the force that drives Carmy, what he can never express to those around him, and why he takes it upon himself the monumental task of turning The Beef around. The Bear shows the pain of loss and the desperation we feel when those we love are taken from us unfairly, and how that pain can drive us to do absurd and terrible things. That’s what it’s about.

I’ve dabbled in writing for a while, but I’ve never had the guts to really commit to it.

There’s the excuse of me being too busy in college, of course, but deep down I know that’s not the case. Had I truly been motivated, there was more than enough time for me to spend on productive writing instead of taking naps, playing video games, or whatever else I did in the lonely hours of the pandemic. Looking back at everything, I feel a slight twinge of regret: while the time I spent on other things was not necessarily time wasted, it was certainly time that could have been better spent. Would it really have been too much to make space for an hour of writing a day? (A lifetime of procrastination suggests that yes, it would have.)

Nevertheless, the turning point for me was one particular class that I took in my senior year. En 086, Fiction and Creative Nonfiction Writing, an odd class to take in a STEM-dominated university like mine. I took a gamble, and it paid off wonderfully–with a few trials and tribulations–and a passion was awoken in me that felt surprisingly familiar. I didn’t fully realize why until later, but in the moment it didn’t matter. Assignment after assignment in that class demanded new ways for me to spin stories. Characters. Suspense. Dialogue. Taking the ideas that floated in my mind and giving them shape, like an alchemist breathing life into homunculi. I’m not embarrassed to say that I paid more attention in that class than in any other college course.

As much fun as I had, the class ended with a stressful final manuscript that left me unsatisfied. The idea behind the story was solid, sure, but it lacked everything else. Ask any entrepreneur and they’ll tell you that an idea by itself is meaningless: ideas are a dime a dozen and rarely followed up upon. How many of us spend hours scheming up “the next big thing” only to wake up the next morning believing it to be doomed to fail? I wanted to develop the manuscript more but was gripped by a sudden hesitation. It didn’t help that after the class ended, there were no weekly assignments to keep me on track, no professor to watch over my shoulder. I’ve always been a “burns twice as bright, half as long” kind of individual, and this raised a very pressing question: could I stick with writing for the long-term?

The answer for the next few months was a resounding “nope.” At the risk of sounding defensive, there really were other factors that stifled my motivation. For example, I had recently been informed that I would need to take an additional term of college to complete my graduation requirements, forcing me to reconsider my future options. Academics were as brutal as always, and the cherry on top was me desperately trying to find a summer job. Still, a single smoldering shard of resistance remained, refusing to fizzle out. It just needed more kindling.

The fire was stoked when I was seized by a sudden nostalgia late one night and I decided to go through several haphazardly sorted folders from years past on Google Drive. I eventually found my way to a folder dating back to high school, back when I edited for the school newspaper. I opened the folder, expecting to see nothing more than a few copy-edited restaurant reviews and school district drama, but instead came across five text files, each one labeled with the unassuming “Untitled document.” Curiosity got the better of me and I double-clicked on the first file. I started reading from the top of the page.

And read.

And read some more.

Ten minutes later I finished reading and leaned back in my chair. I was shocked. The document had held a short story I’d written back in the day, a sci-fi work that I might have planned to publish in the newspaper. What shocked me wasn’t that the story was good, because it really wasn’t–the characters were flat as a board, the descriptions a bit too long-winded, the ending left in ambiguity. No, what got me was the sheer passion with which the work was written. Seventeen-year-old me had been consumed with desire to write, to create something utterly and completely unique and magical and brilliant. I had a taste of the excitement I must have held, and it was that same electric that ran through me in En 086.

My greatest fear then, as it still is now, is that I can no longer harness that passion. There must have been a time in high school where I could sit down and spin pages upon pages of content in a single sitting. I no longer have that endurance, and my approach to writing is a more cautious and picky one. Still, there is no time like the present to write, especially now: having graduated, the burden of academia has been temporarily lifted (grad school remains as a hovering question mark in my mind, but that’s a concern for later). My hope is that, over the course of the next year, I can come to form writing as a serious habit–and what better way to do that then in the form of a blog? I don’t expect to create masterpieces any time soon, but having my work out there is an open-ended way for me to test the waters and receive even the tiniest amount of feedback.

To anyone who has read this far, or read anything I have written at all, thanks! I hope I can one day create something that will take you for a ride.