When they tell you you are made of stars,
do not let them forget what stars are made of.
Stars are not glitter, not stickers on the ceiling,
not there for decoration.
Stars are chunks of collapsing galaxy. They are
hundred-thousand mile wide nuclear furnaces
that consume their surroundings into death.
They are not friendly; they do not exist
to write poems about. Stars
are not made of metaphors. You
are not made of other people’s words.
When they tell you you are made of stars.
look them in the eye and remind them
that so are they, and so is the earth,
and so is the gum on the bottom of your shoes,
and so is the fist you will hit them with
the next time they try to placate you
with their condescending bullshit –
When they tell you you are different from other girls,
ask them why you should want to be.
Do not let them call you dream girl.
Do not let them trap you up on a pedestal,
surrounded by books that cannot hurt them.
Read things that can hurt them.
Your mind is a forest richer than folklore;
do not let your curiosity be reduced to an accessory.
Your intelligence is not a fashion statement.
Your existence is not a novelty.
You are not a metaphor
for someone else’s problems.
When they tell you you are made of stars,
tell them you have always known this.
Tell them you have fire in your bone marrow,
that you are burning with the deaths
of the entire universe before you.
When they tell you you are made of stars,
tell them you know.
Tell them they should keep their distance.

-Melissa Victoria

I found this poem by searching the term “Manic Pixie Dream Girl,” on Tumblr, and it very much hit home. I’m not going to lie: I used to relish at the thought of being considered a Manic Pixie Dream Girl. I considered being a Manic Pixie Dream Girl as being somehow better than any object of pure lust. Manic Pixie Dream Girls are smart, they’re quirky, they’re creative, they have hearts of gold. I wanted to be all of these things, but I think that what I found, what the trope finds, to be the most paramount of all of the traits surrounding these girls is their physical desirability. Everything else, all of the intellectual, creative qualities, as the poem teaches us, are merely “accessories.” And the personalities of these girls in media texts don’t stand on their own, they are intended to birth something within the gaping hole of a male protagonist’s depressing worldview. I decided to write and title the screenplay, “Confessions of A Manic Pixie Dream Girl” (which can be found in the “screenplays” section of this website, or the hyperlink), to acknowledge this stereotype while confronting it head on. What if the girl is the one that needs to be “saved,” and what if the girl has the capacity to save herself? I thought about the word “manic” and decided to use it very literally. Mania is a form of mental illness, not something that girls should be conditioned to aspire to. By fashioning an acutely manic female protagonist, I found that maybe I could shed light on the dangers of needing to always be happy in the eyes of men, to always attempting to be something ethereal, magical, something that exists as a plaything in the imaginations of others. I decided to begin with a fairly typical, albeit extremely concentrated version of the stereotype. We’re aware of what she sees herself as (i.e. a Manic Pixie Dream Girl), while also aware of an ominous factor at play that we know needs to be challenged throughout her character arc. Inherent in the actual nature of mania is an undercurrent of darkness, of anxiety and restlessness. Furthermore, as we see in the poem, the idea of wanting to be “different than other girls” is toxic. I am reminded of the grandiose notions of the manically mentally ill, which are ultimately a means of isolation more than anything else. Feminism acknowledges that women are powerful, beautiful, and unique. However, it is my opinion that in our differences should lay a unifying same-ness in the fact each and every one of us are different. Placing one girl, placing yourself, on a separate realm than other girls, particularly because of the way that one looks, is counterintuitive to everything that the movement stands for. Yes, there is “magic” in a girl’s soul, but the magic isn’t here for men. Nor is it here for external images of ourselves as reflected by media, including social media. The magic of girls (and women, as it does not wither with age), is an internal and beautiful thing. Let it not be reflected in our looks, or even our demeanors, but rather by what we put back into the world. Let’s show our hearts of gold in everyday actions that we come across, not just by posting a video of puppies or babies for the world to see simply because we need the validation of our thousands of Facebook friends seeing it and possibly “liking” it. Let’s understand that hearts of gold are different from person to person, and a kind heart directed inward is the most important thing any woman could have. Let’s show our intelligence by our contributions to the world at large; let’s read “books that can hurt them.” Let’s be curious and quirky in the deepest, most unattractive way without fear of coming across as being “ugly.” Hell, let’s be ugly. Let’s not exist to candy-coat everything around us in sweetness and a false sense of light. Let’s be glaring, unlovely, tackily fluorescent. Let’s call attention to actual truths, not dreamlike mirages. In short, let’s be ourselves, for ourselves.