Why I Love Strands of Starlight

I picked up Strands of Starlight by Gael Baudino almost entirely because of the cover art -- the rest of the motivation I needed involved the description including the Inquisition and Elves. I've never been shy about my feelings in regard to the usual wisdom that one shouldn't "judge a book by its cover" -- that wisdom applies better to people than to books. Cover art is no less art and their visual design and appeal are important. Thomas Canty's work brought me to a lot of good fiction - particularly the Year's Best Fantasy & Horror collections put together by Ellen Datlow & Terri Windling. The more important part here was that I picked it up at all, and that I was a teenager.

It's no big secret that I was sexually abused as a child. In spite of that -- or perhaps because of it -- I found my peace in school and learning, in roleplaying games and speculative fiction of all sorts (fantasy, science fiction, horror). I had more adult friends than peers my own age. Though I was assigned a therapist by the state, I didn't find him helpful. What 16 year old would?

It's been nearly 20 years since I was an angry teenager in a therapist's office, arguing with him over what he thought he knew about me and what I knew about myself. I still think he was wrong; I didn't blame myself and didn't need to move through the step of admitting that I blamed myself so that I could realize it wasn't my fault. I already knew that, I already knew people could be "sick in the head" since my father was an alcoholic and abused my mother. I wasn't burdened with guilt from thinking I had caused my own abused and maybe that's really what saved me.

Still, as I've gotten older, as I've learned to reflect more on my experience of being human and what I've learned about the human experience through stories, I sometimes have epiphanous moments where I better understand myself and the things I've loved.

I have loved Strands of Starlight from the moment I started reading it. I have loved it for more than 20 years, though I never could quite put my finger on why, beyond the facts that:
1) the cover was beautiful
2) Baudino's storytelling voice flowed well for me
3) it mixed real world bits with high fantasy bits -- I hadn't experienced magical realism yet, though I feel a strong connection to the stories that seed our reality with magical possibility.

I heard three words today: Redemption through Transformation. And I suddenly knew what I'd been trying to figure out for so long, what I'd been so close to figuring out on more than one occasion when I found myself looking at this book -- holding a copy I'd found in a used bookstore in my hands, or dusting off my second copy (I lost the first), or preparing to send a friend a copy because it was like giving them a piece of my soul even if they didn't know it.

As part of the story, Miriam, the protagonist -- like so many protagonists -- can only achieve redemption (and revenge) through transformation, and it occurs on a very literal, physical level for her. As a teenager, I was essentially powerless. As an adult, it isn't a whole lot better. But I needed to believe in the possibility of setting things right, of gaining some modicum of control over things happening to me in my life.

As a teenager, I lost control of a lot of things, including my body. When I manifested Hashimoto's and my thyroid ceased regular function, I put on a lot of weight in a very short amount of time. This loss of bodily control was just as hurtful to me as my abuse, maybe more so since there wasn't someone doing this to me... my body was doing it to itself.

I saw this in Miriam, too. I related strongly, even if I didn't realize it, to the figure of a girl who had done nothing wrong but was treated by a dominant system as though she were guilty of some crime. For Miriam, it was her power of healing which didn't fit the church's paradigm. For me, it was being asked what I did to provoke my abuser - a man of nearly 40, when I was 6. It was being accused of lying and stealing by a foster mother who was more accustomed to younger children. It was having my escapes taken away from me by a religion-sponsored children's home. And Miriam did the thing I wanted to do -- she escaped to a world where people valued her and didn't care about her past. And she changed. She took power for herself. Without spoiling the story -- because of course I hope you'll read it -- she did the things I wanted, needed to do, even if I hadn't consciously realized it.

Maybe this is also why I like "unlikeable" characters, like Miriam or Meche. But that's a whole other can of worms...

It seems silly and oversimplified, put like this. Stark black letters on the white (digital) page.  But it's powerful and it was a story I needed as a teenager, and to an extent still need today. We all need stories like that; stories that tell us that we are not defeated, that someone like us can, has, will find a way through the pain and suffering and will find beautiful things.

Is it always happy endings and rainbows? No. I would argue it isn't even often happy endings and rainbows, but that's not what hope is for or about.

The Cost of Kindness

This morning I woke up, read some more of Stephen King's "Full Dark, No Stars" and then went out for some errands. I've been in need of sundry bits and a couple of nice shirts that would be appropriate for more-than-casual appointments or potential interviews. After knocking out a couple of stops, I went to grab a sandwich for lunch from the nearby Subway.

As part of my own sort of self-therapy (and because I'd had a good morning of reading and thinking about my own writing), I tried to smile at strangers, to make at-least-polite eye-contact, and to just be as pleasant as humanly possible. The idea being that not only would this help me feel more comfortable, but it might actually improve someone else's day. This, unfortunately, has a pretty messy price. It leaves me feeling a little spent - it really is an effort to not simply shut down to all the strangers milling about in a store. But it also seems to create in others an expectation of who I am, of what I am to them.

It says something when I explain that I know when someone is about to ask me for money. As I came out of the shop with my sandwich, I made brief eye contact with a slight smile and then went for my car. I wasn't worried that this person was going to do anything harmful to me, but I could see the shift in his body language and he altered his path to intercept mine. I was closer to my car however and had determined that I just wanted to leave. I was pulling out of my parking space when he entered my field of view again, this time in front of my car. I had no choice but to stop.

Of course, he approached and told me his story. This one was simple. He was 50 cents short for bus fare, if I had some change or could help him out, he'd be very appreciative. I didn't have any cash. I looked in my change tray. I had two brand new pennies that weren't superglued (by goodness knows what) to my console, so I was apologetic and offered them to him. He said something I couldn't quite understand and I said, "I'm sorry?"

At this point, he wasn't aggressive and I am not sure he was actually talking to me anymore.  He'd completely dismissed me now that he'd gotten the change I had and there was no further use for me. I didn't even get to wish him luck or give him a "God bless you" which is the standard exchange I'm used to with strangers who approach me for money in parking lots. But I could tell he's annoyed.

Did I want to avoid him? Yes. Did I want to leave as quickly as possible? Yes. Did I want to do it because I thought anything negative about him? Not particularly. It had everything to do with me being a means to an end, with knowing I would be wedged into a situation where MORE kindness would be asked/required from me than I could give at that time. And my deep-seated dislike of disappointing people. It also happens frequently enough that I've learned to recognize that it's going to happen - this means it happens a lot.

I find myself with very real justifications for the patterns of social behavior I'm trying to correct. Situations like this feed my anxiety and encourage me to close up and pretend other people don't exist.

"Kindness doesn't cost a thing." 

For those who struggle with anxiety, this is so far from true. Kindness given by an unwanted or unwelcome encounter feels essentially forced. It doesn't reciprocate, it doesn't feel good at all.

On top of that, every person that approaches me for monetary help brings back with them every person I've met in that way. The homeless man I spent 15 minutes talking to one day about surgery and the infection on his leg, the parolee whose family wouldn't take him in, the man who ran out of gas, the woman with three kids leaving an abusive husband, another parolee trying to keep himself in school, and a few others whose stories blend together. Sure, some of them could've been - probably were - cons. I knew that the moment they engaged me, and I decided that there was no way for me to know and that I would give them all the benefit of the doubt.

With all these stories though comes the emotional battery that some of us experience when taking on the burden of another person's tragic story. If I am to have faith in these people, I have to believe their stories. If I believe their stories, I cannot help but empathize, or at least sympathize, with every one of them. Their stories become my stories and that is what guides me to help them - tempered with keeping my own well being and means in mind.

Today I could only give the man 2 cents from my console and he did give a quick thanks, but then he was done with me. Obviously, I'm still carrying some of him. I hope he got the change he needed to get the bus he needed and that he got where he needed to go. I hope all of them did.

I don't remember where I was going with this other than to say that we bandy about the idea that kindness doesn't cost a thing, but it does for those of us who really consider what it means to treat others the way we would want to be treated. How do we know how we'd like to be treated unless we can slip on the other person's shoes to consider how we might like to be treated in their place?

Neil Gaiman & the Shared Love of things

Tonight, Neil Gaiman came through Denver on his "Final U.S. Book Tour" and did a 1000 ticket signing at the Tattered Cover bookstore. It is the only bookstore on the tour as the requirements for those wanting to host the tour (per a conversation I wandered into with an employee) was that they'd have to rent a hall capable of seating 2000 and have it rented into the tiny hours of the morning. The Tattered Cover couldn't do it, so had to pass. Per the story I heard, Neil intervened because he had fond memories of the place and wanted to include it in his last signing tour. (In his Reading and Q&A prior to the signing, he told a story about two previous signings - at the first, he signed someone's arm. At the second, he saw his signature tattooed onto that person's arm and swore to write legibly on flesh from that day on.)

If you go to conventions or signings or any event really, you learn to recognize a line, even if it's scattered through stacks, or zigzagged around tables. The signing today was no different.

I arrived at 4pm but was not near enough to the front of the line to get seating in the 300-person event hall. The whole thing was wired, however, so that there was a single projection and sound on the entire second floor. I shared a divan with 4 other people, not including the 3 that used the headrest for leaning support from the floor. No one complained, no one said anything rude, no one made judgy faces. We were all there because we loved something.

We all shared a love of some piece of Neil Gaiman which he's given to us in his creative works.

I didn't exactly break bread with strangers, but we moved from a loose social bond in the line to sharing a table and a common space. We had conversations almost like friends. People and books all over the place, and a common feeling.se

(I also played spot-the-(local)-author. Saw Stant Litore (The Zombie Bible), Stephen Graham Jones (The Last Final Girl), and Gary Jonas (Modern Sorcery).)


When I finally decided to find a place on the floor to sit for a while, I couldn't read. I ended up next to two younger individuals. A comment was made about how friendly people were, and how many strangers were ebbing and flowing through conversations. I was candid, I wasn't nervous, I wasn't shy. I told them this;

"There's a kind of connection at geeky events like this. Conventions, signings, and the like. This is the only kind of event where I talk to strangers. Not at the grocery store, not usually in a classroom, only here."

What I didn't say out loud, what I ran out of words to say was that... these are the places where we feel the least judged for our loves. No one was there who would say "Why would anyone stand in line for HOURS just to meet some author?" or worse, they wouldn't ask "Who?" or question the joy on my face at the prospect.

When it was time, I struggled with myself in the line. I swiped away tears, I told myself I could do this - I could be coherent, I wouldn't cry, I would say what I wanted to say and I knew he would understand what I was trying to communicate.

I took a breath, opened my mouth and I said "You're my unicorn."

Let's take a little time out to talk about social & generalized anxiety, and the little hateful voices that so many of us are cultivated to have. Immediately, I hear the screaming in my head, "What did you just say? Do you know how stupid that sounded? You're a stalker, you're a weirdo! Why would you say that! Why can't you just be normal?"

Why can't you just be normal.

Why can't you just be normal.

It's a mantra that devours so much confidence, so much energy, and so much good-will. It takes and takes, and what it gives back is nothing you want to have.

I stumbled over the words, tears choking my voice. I wanted to explain to him that I struggle with social & general anxiety disorders. That I drove into an unknown place, alone. I parked underground (I'm a little claustrophobic). I walked alone. I talked to authority strangers (the first security person when I pulled into the wrong place, the second when I lost my sense of direction). I was far away from all areas of comfort (so I believed earlier in the day - turns out I'm at home even in 'strange' bookstores) and I was totally alone. I had only myself to depend on - and sometimes my Self is not very reliable for me.

I managed to say something about my anxiety but I was already in tears. There was no stopping them.

"Come here for a hug."

I wasn't sure I heard right, but the assistants around the table ushered me around and Neil Gaiman gave me a hug. A firm, warm, comfortable hug. He told me he was proud of me. I told him I was sorry, I didn't want to cry on him. He told me it was okay, to go ahead and cry. I did, though I held in most of it. I had permission, but I did not want to cry in his hair, on his shoulder - he has a long night ahead of him and is due in another city by tomorrow evening.

It was because he took a moment to say, "I'm proud of you." For coming out despite my anxiety, for showing up, for being there. No one has ever, ever validated my efforts to overcome this hurdle before. And I realize how pathetic that sounds.

I cried all the way home. I'm still crying as I write this.

It all spun by so fast.


Not that I imagine he'll see this here, but:

Neil Gaiman - thank you. From the depths of my heart and the deeper places. Thank you for the works you share with us, the love you engender in your fans - the love of your works, for yourself, and for each other. But also thank you for taking a moment for a kind gesture and words that really do mean more than just the letters or the sounds. Thank you for drowning out those terrible little demons with simple words and real feeling.

I fought and was wounded, but ultimately defeated beasts just for a chance to simply see one of my metaphorical unicorns tonight. My efforts were repaid more than I dared to hope.