Beauty and the Beast:
Good, Evil, and the
Art of Writing
Rachel Thomson
I have been a
lover of fiction since I first stepped out of the wardrobe as a child still
breathing Narnian air. Fantasy in
particular has planted visions within me that will haunt me till the day I
die—nor do I wish to be free of the haunting. People who didn't read voraciously as children may never
understand how much the books we read influence who we become. While daily life was still teaching us
to do dishes and homework, books were teaching us about heroism, loyalty,
courage, heartache, true love, and places so beautiful you could die for
longing to see them. The ideals I
picked up as a child in Narnia and Middle-Earth, in Kipling's India and
Arthur's Britain, are with me still.
A writer of
fantasy myself now, I labour to paint visions of my own. My goal? To create something so beautiful it hurts. In the process, I find myself tangling
with the problem of evil. The fact
is, every beautiful story has its beast.
The conflict between good and evil lies at the root of most stories,
though modern literature does its royal best to confuse the fact. I love fantasy because it isn't ashamed
to paint in black and white. Maybe
that's why its heroes shine so brightly.
Tolkien's elves could not be so tragically lovely without the evil of
Sauron hanging over them. Without
the treachery of mankind, Aslan is little more than a talking animal. A candle is nothing until it's in the
dark. You get the idea.
Any story that
does not address evil in some form is not addressing life. Yet I am aware that there are authors
who, in describing the beast, have become its accomplices.
In L.M. Montgomery's classic children's novel Emily of New Moon, Emily Starr goes to stay with
her great-aunt Nancy, whose unscrupulous tongue brings Emily's childhood
innocence to a crashing end. Emily
is fascinated by the stories, but "[they] made her feel unhappy somehow,
as if something very ugly were concealed in the darkness of the pit they opened
before her innocent eyes."
There are
writers who plunge into evil, until reading their books becomes a macabre
baptism. I once heard author Neil
Gaiman talk about his graphic novel "Endless Nights," in which he
wrote a story on madness. A
psychiatrist friend read it and asked Neil if he needed to make an appointment
with him. No, Neil told him, that
wouldn't be necessary—his demons were all out on paper now, but maybe the
doctor should check up on other people after they read it.
In grappling
with the problem of evil in the world, writing can be a form of exorcism for
the writer. Once our nightmares
are on paper they cease to control us.
The trouble is, they are now suspended on a bridge of words, waiting to
enter into the heart of a reader.
The history of my imagination has dark places in which new depths of
horror were opened to me, and a piece of my innocence was forever lost. I wish I could go back, and I hope that
my writing will never do the same to anyone else—God forbid it should
serve the same purpose as Aunt Nancy's tongue, destroying childhood in those
who read it.
Others feel
that the beast does not belong in storytelling at all; that if we're to be
responsible authors we should stick to tales on the level of Dick and
Jane. Those of us who write
fantasy know that this is not an option.
Evil can't be overcome by ignoring it. You have to buckle on your sword, swallow your fears, and
overcome evil with good. In a way,
that's what fantasy authors are doing every time they set their Frodos on the
road to Mount Doom. Many of us
realize, as I do, that this world of ours is in the midst of its own epic
battle—our stories are one way we hope to tip the scales in the heroes'
favour.
As writers, we
have the ability to enter the hearts and minds of others. This is a great power, and as Peter
Parker's Uncle Ben once said, "With great power comes great
responsibility." Evil is
powerfully attractive and the feelings, images, and thoughts it brings on are
not easily shaken. In the pages of
books I have seen purity, love, and wonder; I have also seen violence, madness,
and perversion. Some of those
images still haunt me, too, but I wish with all my heart that I could be rid of
them.
Many
successful authors have made careers of exploring horror, fear, and
degradation. Like maniacal
ringleaders, they cage evil and charge the masses to see it. Its power to fascinate and addict is
evident in readers who cannot turn away.
Much noise has been made over the years about the destructive power of
music that is filled with obscenity and violence. Surely authors have as much moral responsibility to their
readers as musicians do to those who hear them.
It's getting
harder and harder to find stories that do not attack the innocence of their
readers. As a culture, we care
little for the purity of Luthien—the charms of Morgana le Fey are much
more to our liking. But then,
writers have never been content to let culture sit where it is. Writing has the power to awaken hearts
to that which is good and beautiful.
It has the power to plant courage and character in those who take it to
heart.
Curiously,
it's much harder to write beauty than it is to write ugliness. Evil seems so much more real than Good,
and far more attractive. In my own
writing at least, I hope to reverse the trend. Writing has the power to lift the eyes of a reader out of
Hell and into Heaven—this is my goal.
Rachel Thomson is a freelance writer and
editor. Nonfiction keeps her busy but fantasy is her first love
(next to God, her family, and life itself).
Cover—"Empty Tube Station at Night"
and Illustration, Bill Snodgrass, Copyright 2005
Bill Snodgrass is on The Sword Review editorial staff. His fiction accomplishments are found at www.billsnodgrass.com.