Winged Paths

Tale as old as time

wingedpaths — Sun, 22 Jan 2012 16:53:14 +0000

You’re going to laugh at me, I know you are. I’m 28–almost 29–and I went to see Disney’s Beauty & the Beast in the theater last weekend. And that’s not why you’re going to laugh, even though Sean & I were the only adults there who did not have children or grandchildren with us as a reason (or excuse) to be in the theater. No, you’re going to laugh because I cried while watching it. And I cried a lot.

You see, I didn’t know how much it would mean to me to see Beauty & the Beast in the theater again, I really didn’t. I knew I wanted to go because it’s always been a favorite of mine, but I just thought it would be fun. I didn’t expect it to touch something deep inside me, something so deep that I spent most of the movie in tears; so deep that even now, almost a week later, I still can’t entirely explain it to myself.

But here’s something else: I’ve done a lot of thinking in the past year or two about who I am as a writer and what has influenced my creativity. Until then, I just went along blithely, writing this and that, happily bouncing from one story to the next without ever seeing the common threads that wove through them. Then one day I took another look at my two biggest projects and had an epiphany: although the characters, plots, and worlds of those stories are very different, they shared several of the same themes. And it wasn’t much longer until I started realizing that those themes have showed up again and again in my writing ever since I was a child… Which, in turn, got me thinking about why those things are so important to me as a writer. And what I’ve discovered is that every one of those themes is something that I was exposed to very early in life through books and movies, and then that theme was reinforced by other things I read and saw over the years, things that I loved and had a huge impact on me.

I’m particularly fond of polite villains, for example. I get a big kick out of any well-written villain, but my absolute favorite is always the one who is a consummate gentleman, who will smile charmingly even as he does his incredibly wicked deeds. Seriously, I love these villains–I’m not kidding, I practically go weak-kneed for them. And do you know why I adore polite villains? Well, it’s got a lot to do with the fact that between the ages of 4 and 14, I encountered three of the most marvelously evil, charming, and gentlemanly villains/anti-heroes in all of fiction: Captain Nemo, Regis Blackard, and Gerald Tarrant. (Don’t worry, I know you haven’t heard of the last two.) Between the three of them, I got a lot of exposure to courteous, well-mannered villainy while growing up. So, when writing my current novel, I created what is (for me) the ultimate villain: deliciously evil, but oh so very, very courteous about it. And believe me, he’s not the only polite villain to play a role in my fiction through the years.

I know that was a bit long-winded, but the point is this: I was 8 years old when Beauty & the Beast was released in theaters for the first time. Do you know what I was doing when it came out? I was almost halfway through my second year at The World’s Worst Private School, where my classmates tormented me relentlessly for being different from them. And this is what made me different: I was creative, and I loved to read. So it’s not surprising that Belle is, and always has been, the Disney heroine I identify with most strongly. In many ways, I am her: imaginative, a lover of fairy tales, longing for adventure and romance; lonely, misunderstood, and treated harshly by my peers.

But it goes even deeper. This movie plays to many of my favorite writing themes: redemption, identity (man or monster?), sacrifice, love. Beauty & the Beast is a foundational work for me, along with The Chronicles of Narnia, Amy’s Eyes, The Scarlet Pimpernel, and many more. But as much as I have loved it throughout the years, as much time as I have spent considering my influences as a writer, I did not truly realize how important it is to me until seeing it in the theater again.

It sounds a little ridiculous, doesn’t it? It’s a kid’s movie, for heaven’s sake. It’s *Disney*, for heaven’s sake. It could hardly be less accurate to the original fairy tale, and there are singing candlesticks and dancing teapots and a barking ottoman. But I sat in the dark theater in the very back corner of the last row, and it came to the part that has always spoken for my heart more than anything else, Belle singing, “I want adventure in the great wide somewhere, I want it more than I can tell…” And I sang it with her as I do every single time without fail, not quietly and shyly as I am wont to do when anyone can hear me, but as loud as possible, with all my heart behind it. And Sean reached out to me and took my hand as I sang those words, and that is when I began to cry.

I cried several more times throughout the movie, including at the end. Bawled my eyes out for most of it, to be honest. And still, I can’t quite explain it to myself, let alone to anyone else. Maybe it’s something to do with the loss of that adventure I have been yearning for–and singing about–my whole life, for my leg injury has put the great wide somewhere far beyond my reach. Maybe it was seeing something familiar and beloved for the 100th time and finally realizing that this is much more than an old childhood favorite, although I am still incapable of analyzing how it touches me so deeply. Or maybe it was something about the fact that this, this is the story I have been writing for the past 10 years, that I have poured my life and soul into crafting anew, that I need to tell more than anything else I have ever written–or may ever write again. It is not Disney’s version of Beauty & the Beast, not by a long shot, nor is it Madame Villenueve‘s version or anyone else’s, but it is Beauty & the Beast nonetheless.

And really, is it any wonder that this is the fairy tale I have chosen to rewrite, the story that has so captured me? Beauty & the Beast really is a “tale as old as time”–it is a type of Cupid and Psyche, the oldest known fairy tale. It gave me the opportunity to delve into all the themes that are so close to my heart, years before I was even aware of them. And somewhere in between the lines I have written, somewhere in the hundreds and hundreds of handwritten pages stacked in manila folders around the house, there is a little girl who fell in love with ancient civilizations, Sir Percy Blakeney, the beauty of Tolkien’s invented languages, polite villains, fairy tales and myths, and hundred other things; and somewhere in those words is a little girl who sings loudly in the back of the theater as tears 20 years in the making roll down her cheeks.

The girl who (sometimes) recognizes herself

wingedpaths — Fri, 20 Jan 2012 19:18:09 +0000

She is still way overweight, still struggling with her life and her scarred little heart, still struggling to be present, but even in the midst of this, sometimes there is a moment when she recognizes herself. A moment, say, on the top level of the parking garage of the casino outside of town, the one with a glorious 360-degree view of the Spokane area, where she raced the sunset with her camera and her binoculars to watch the moon rise, huge and golden, above the mountains, the valley, the beginnings of the Colombia Plateau that spreads out for mile after flat mile until suddenly plummeting hundreds of feet into the great river that twists from one end of the state to the other. The wind was harsh and icy that night, so strong that even on a tripod the camera was useless, and it ripped tears from the corners of her eyes, tears that were still wet on her cheeks when she took the photo. Nothing she wore matched that night: red shirt, blue scarf, olive green sweater, multicolored arm warmers, white bandana, all snatched up in a hurry, and the combination was bad enough that she was too embarrassed to go into the restaurant for dinner, but somehow when she got home with this one photo for the night, it looked not so bad after all–it looked perhaps a little eccentric, but authentic. And maybe that last tear in the corner of her eye isn’t because of the wind at all. Maybe it’s gratefulness, and just a smattering of tentative joy, that even now there is enough of her present to (sometimes) recognize.

Winter mantra

wingedpaths — Mon, 09 Jan 2012 23:29:14 +0000

It is the barren time of year, the lonely time of year, the time for subsisting on less than what is necessary, survival purchased at a steep cost. But if I am truthful, I have felt lonely and lost for a long time now, with only fleeting moments of sunshine in between. So I grit my teeth into the bitter wind that has chilled my heart even in the dead of summer, and tell myself this:

I will not disappear from the blogverse this winter. I will not disappear from the blogverse this winter. I will not disappear from the blogverse this winter.

Repeat until winter is over.

Never mind that I have barely been present in the blogverse for the last 6+ months anyway. I will not disappear completely.

And all you sweet, lovely people who have hung in there so long with me, visiting my blog and leaving kind comments despite the echoing void from Amy-land… I am working on writing you back. Bear with me please. 2012 looks just as wretched as 2011 so far, and I am still dealing with everything from run-of-the-mill busy-ness to my health to deeper personal issues.

But I will not disappear.

I will NOT disappear.

It is also the time of year for hibernation, when things lie dormant in order to endure this harsh season. When the entire world is holding its breath for renewal. As am I.

December Views: This was Christmas

wingedpaths — Wed, 28 Dec 2011 19:09:51 +0000

It was a really wonderful day. Things got off to a late start, but there were Christmas waffles and presents that thrilled everyone, then a small family gathering up in Colville. There was a flock of quail flitting about the backyard, a snowy sunset in the mountains, my mother-in-law dancing. My brother-in-law took me on a short drive down the valley to catch a glimpse of a rare snowy owl with the new binoculars my mom gave me for Christmas. But even though I came home with a camera full of pretty photos of wild birds and mountain vistas, this is undoubtedly my favorite image of the day.

This is my nephew Sidney in his spiffy new hat, pausing to make a silly face as he plays with his presents. I sat unnoticed at the dining room table sneaking photos of him for 20 minutes straight to get this one shot, because most of the time he was doing this:

I’m not around kids much these days. My stepson is almost an adult, and my leg pain keeps me home by myself during most holidays and family gatherings. The last time I saw Sidney, he was a toddler. I’m pretty sure he has no idea who I am, or that he even has an Aunt Amy. Still, my heart smiles whenever I look at these photos. Christmas with the family. Days later, it still feels good.

Holiday Wishes

wingedpaths — Sat, 24 Dec 2011 19:33:16 +0000

~Wishing all my friends near and far a very lovely Christmas, filled with bright memories, laughter, and warmth.~
Love,
Amy

December Views: Winter Vignette

wingedpaths — Fri, 23 Dec 2011 05:38:18 +0000

It is very cold and silent tonight, and the dark presses against the window panes. It is a night made for loneliness.

December Views: She catches the December stars

wingedpaths — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 22:56:27 +0000

in a strand of aging pearls
turning smoky golden with the years:
an echo of the pearls that fell
shining to the scarred wooden floor
during a spring and summer without end.
and the lights on the tree form a hundred small suns
that prickle and spark on her skin,
like the snowflakes that will not come
this year, like the satin-white
whisper that twines from elbow to palm,
and the visions of sugarplums
and fairies that dance in her head.

December Views: Night Magic

wingedpaths — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 20:55:29 +0000

It was an art trade: 3 of my 8×10 photos for one of her necklaces, so it was meant to be an even exchange. But it’s one of a kind, custom made just for me, and it’s so gorgeous it feels more like a gift. I got teary-eyed when I opened that little box and saw the word “novelist” on the back of the book charm, and even though it was very late and we’d just gotten back from an exhausting trip to Leavenworth, I had to write her immediately and let her know how much I loved it.

I put it on first thing the next day and wore it when Sean & I drove up to Colville to deliver a small gift (the only chocolate-peppermint truffles to survive the great kitchen explosion) to the wonderful gals at our favorite sandwich shop in the Inland Northwest. It was one of those dash-out-the-door madly trips, and I had just enough presence of mind to grab my camera–but not to take the tripod along too. After all, I knew the sun was going to set in only 30-45 minutes, we’d be on the road for the majority of the time, and it was supposed to be just a quick trip to drop off the chocolates and come right back home.

But a weird thing happened on the way to Colville, with that beautiful handmade necklace hanging beside my heart: I started to feel adventurous instead of tired, creative instead of rushed. So we gave the truffles away, ate sandwiches, and took random side roads on the way home, popping out of the car every few miles to prop the camera up on the hood or the trunk and take long exposures of farms lying in the shadows of mountain ranges beneath the clear starry sky. I got mixed results without the tripod (a lovely photo of some gravel glowing a dull red in the car’s tail lights, for example), and neither of us were dressed for extended time outdoors on such a cold night. The copper-wrapped key next to my heart grew chilly in the night air, then slowly warmed to a comforting temperature when we got back in the car, then cooled again the next time we stopped on the side of the road to shiver while the camera pointed off into the distance.

Then the fog started to roll in from the distant fields and encroach on the road. We were still an hour from home–if we went the quick way and didn’t make any more stops. So we pulled into a field between a gas station and a casino for one last shot of the moon above the mountains. That one didn’t turn out, but the one I took just after–it was magic. It’s just a weedy mound of dirt behind a gas station outside of Chewelah, lit by a regular old parking lot light, something I’ve seen a dozen times by daylight and never thought about twice. But darned if it didn’t look downright enchanting that night, and darned if it didn’t turn out to be my favorite shot of all. And this might sound silly, but… it was going to be a completely ordinary day, an utterly boring trip. But there’s a spark of artistic magic trapped in that necklace, and it spilled over the first time I wore it. So this one’s for you, Sass. Love ya.

December Views: Fog

wingedpaths — Fri, 16 Dec 2011 09:02:37 +0000

December Views: Dear Strangers

wingedpaths — Mon, 12 Dec 2011 22:57:08 +0000

If you noticed me taking your photo as you walked away hand-in-hand, you probably thought I was creepy. Hopefully, you simply assumed I was photographing Leavenworth’s holiday decorations and weren’t concerned by the click and whir of my little camera, whose name is Lizzie by the way. Either way, I want you to know. that I love the moment I captured in the glow of the Christmas lights, the two of you swinging hands like a much younger couple, comfortable in your togetherness, quietly enjoying the beauty of the season. You remind me of the husband and wife I saw leaving the Davenport Hotel in downtown Spokane some years ago, who paused on the empty sidewalk to twirl in each other’s embrace, never noticing the silent observer across the street who would later write them into a poem.

an older couple in leather jackets leave
the restaurant to
dance a few turns on the sidewalk
beneath the streetlamps, the
stars, the towering night

Perhaps you actually are that husband and wife, and our paths have crossed again. Perhaps someday, a few years from now, I will be standing on a street corner in Sandpoint or Colville or Ellensburg, and I will see you dance once more, the only witness to your ongoing love story.