1,000 words about magic
I am the most romantic cynic you will ever meet.
I believe in love and magic and miracles and extraordinary events. I believe in them because the words convince me; how could such beautiful language exist without something behind it? I believe in poetry and delicate prose and the unbelievable adventures of unbelieveable people. I can believe in almost anything, if it's beautiful. I can believe in almost anything, because when I was a child, I practiced.
I was quite young when I read Alice in Wonderland; in fact, I probably had it read to me before I could read, so that would make it around my toddler years. The idea of believing 6 impossible things every day (before breakfast, if possible), has always been an enchanting one to me. I mean, why not? What harm in believing? People who believed in things seemed so much happier. There were so many more things that could possibly happen; every day would be more exciting and more full of potential.
My childhood was full of fairy tales, myths, and folk stories. I wanted to believe in Baba Yaga, because people who believed in Baba Yaga lived in a world where magic things happened all the time, and it wasn't surprising or even necessarily frightening. It was the way of the world. I decided that if I believed in all the things the fairy tales told me about, my world would have magic, too. And I would know how to deal with it.
I still do know how to deal with it, incidentally. If nothing else, I am well-prepared for the day when a crone asks me for help at a well in the middle of the woods. I know what to do if twelve women sitting in a circle ask me what my favorite month is. I know you don't brag about being better than the gods at *anything*, and I know how to sweet-talk vain women with magical powers. I know you do NOT open that door, no matter how curious you are. And I know you invite *all* the fairies to your baby's christening, not just the pretty ones. This is my self-education.
I want to emphasize, though, that the line between fiction and non-fiction was never, ever even blurred for me. I wrote notes and left them in the garden for the gnomes because I wanted to be the kind of person who believed in gnomes. I never crossed the line into *actually* believing in gnomes; I was just trying to invite a little magic into my life and see what happened. I talked to gods, and did my best to be gracious and kind so that magical persons of any ilk would approve of me. I made a conscious decision to believe in whatever crossed my path, as long as it was lovely.
For a girl who read all the time, and read the wildest flights of fancy, I was absurdly unimaginative. I never named any of my stuffed animals. In fact, I've never named an inanimate object in my life. My most common naming convention, should I decide that some non-alive thing needs a name, is to call it Mr. [Name of Object]. Like my giant stuffed bear, Mr. Bear. I just can't *think* of anything. Having never had a glimmer of a moment where I felt like my toys had personalities, I could never think of anything that might be an even remotely appropriate name.
The games that I played with my Barbies were all about sex. In fact, I can't even begin to imagine what other games people played with toys. I understand, intellectually, that kids create whole little worlds and scenarios and plays and act them out with their toys, and make their toys talk, and stuff... but honestly, I can't picture it. I *certainly* never did it. I just made the Barbies have sex with the GI Joes and lamented the size difference.
So, unable to dream up any kind of world for myself inside my own head, I nicked it all from books. I believed in fairy rings, and mischevious sprites, and phoenixes. I believed they were real, and I believed they were around me. I believed they cared about me. I believed I could talk to them.
I think that what I really believed, what I was absolutely sure of all the way down to my core, was that an untruth can be worthy of devotion if it's beautiful enough. I think I still believe that. But I never crossed the line into believing that those things were truths. How can I explain that pretending to believe was just as good as believing, to me?
I believed in magic and love and purity because I liked the characters who believed in those things, and I wanted to be like them. For that matter, I cared about the way my hands looked because Meg, from Little Women, cared about hers, and I wanted to be feminine and sweet but still wild because that's what Jo wanted, and it's not entirely un-possible that I dyed my hair black when I was 14 because I grew up wanting to look like Scarlett O'Hara. She was a practical sort of woman; her, I understood.
And after all my hard practice, all my lip-service to the brownies and the gnomes and the long-gone Roman Gods, it worked a little. I believe in magic. I believe in fairies and angels and another world just on the other side of this one whence these things leak through. I believe in heros and adventures in this world, and I believe that some people are touched. The right combination of language, the right passage in a book or a poem, can make me ache for that world. Because the truth is, I don't believe in much. I believe in the potential of magic. I believe that these things *could* be true. And if it's beautiful enough, I'll devote myself to the story. Mostly, though... mostly I just believe in the words.
I believe in love and magic and miracles and extraordinary events. I believe in them because the words convince me; how could such beautiful language exist without something behind it? I believe in poetry and delicate prose and the unbelievable adventures of unbelieveable people. I can believe in almost anything, if it's beautiful. I can believe in almost anything, because when I was a child, I practiced.
I was quite young when I read Alice in Wonderland; in fact, I probably had it read to me before I could read, so that would make it around my toddler years. The idea of believing 6 impossible things every day (before breakfast, if possible), has always been an enchanting one to me. I mean, why not? What harm in believing? People who believed in things seemed so much happier. There were so many more things that could possibly happen; every day would be more exciting and more full of potential.
My childhood was full of fairy tales, myths, and folk stories. I wanted to believe in Baba Yaga, because people who believed in Baba Yaga lived in a world where magic things happened all the time, and it wasn't surprising or even necessarily frightening. It was the way of the world. I decided that if I believed in all the things the fairy tales told me about, my world would have magic, too. And I would know how to deal with it.
I still do know how to deal with it, incidentally. If nothing else, I am well-prepared for the day when a crone asks me for help at a well in the middle of the woods. I know what to do if twelve women sitting in a circle ask me what my favorite month is. I know you don't brag about being better than the gods at *anything*, and I know how to sweet-talk vain women with magical powers. I know you do NOT open that door, no matter how curious you are. And I know you invite *all* the fairies to your baby's christening, not just the pretty ones. This is my self-education.
I want to emphasize, though, that the line between fiction and non-fiction was never, ever even blurred for me. I wrote notes and left them in the garden for the gnomes because I wanted to be the kind of person who believed in gnomes. I never crossed the line into *actually* believing in gnomes; I was just trying to invite a little magic into my life and see what happened. I talked to gods, and did my best to be gracious and kind so that magical persons of any ilk would approve of me. I made a conscious decision to believe in whatever crossed my path, as long as it was lovely.
For a girl who read all the time, and read the wildest flights of fancy, I was absurdly unimaginative. I never named any of my stuffed animals. In fact, I've never named an inanimate object in my life. My most common naming convention, should I decide that some non-alive thing needs a name, is to call it Mr. [Name of Object]. Like my giant stuffed bear, Mr. Bear. I just can't *think* of anything. Having never had a glimmer of a moment where I felt like my toys had personalities, I could never think of anything that might be an even remotely appropriate name.
The games that I played with my Barbies were all about sex. In fact, I can't even begin to imagine what other games people played with toys. I understand, intellectually, that kids create whole little worlds and scenarios and plays and act them out with their toys, and make their toys talk, and stuff... but honestly, I can't picture it. I *certainly* never did it. I just made the Barbies have sex with the GI Joes and lamented the size difference.
So, unable to dream up any kind of world for myself inside my own head, I nicked it all from books. I believed in fairy rings, and mischevious sprites, and phoenixes. I believed they were real, and I believed they were around me. I believed they cared about me. I believed I could talk to them.
I think that what I really believed, what I was absolutely sure of all the way down to my core, was that an untruth can be worthy of devotion if it's beautiful enough. I think I still believe that. But I never crossed the line into believing that those things were truths. How can I explain that pretending to believe was just as good as believing, to me?
I believed in magic and love and purity because I liked the characters who believed in those things, and I wanted to be like them. For that matter, I cared about the way my hands looked because Meg, from Little Women, cared about hers, and I wanted to be feminine and sweet but still wild because that's what Jo wanted, and it's not entirely un-possible that I dyed my hair black when I was 14 because I grew up wanting to look like Scarlett O'Hara. She was a practical sort of woman; her, I understood.
And after all my hard practice, all my lip-service to the brownies and the gnomes and the long-gone Roman Gods, it worked a little. I believe in magic. I believe in fairies and angels and another world just on the other side of this one whence these things leak through. I believe in heros and adventures in this world, and I believe that some people are touched. The right combination of language, the right passage in a book or a poem, can make me ache for that world. Because the truth is, I don't believe in much. I believe in the potential of magic. I believe that these things *could* be true. And if it's beautiful enough, I'll devote myself to the story. Mostly, though... mostly I just believe in the words.