On Greachin:
When I wrote Greachin, I chose to write a character...
On Greachin:
When I wrote Greachin, I chose to write a character who had never experienced love, with the brief exception of love for his family, which was wholly natural to experience at a tender age.
Greachin is murdered repeatedly, again and again, by the entity Fengrid, who has somehow been able to possess him and control him through the eons—until finally driving Greachin into the realm of power only Fengrid heretofore wields (as far as Fengrid knows, that is).
Greachin had never felt the impulse to love, never been allowed to let love come to its fruition—not once in his many lives before his Ascent, did that happen. And so he was stuck. All he knew was self-defense, and it had taken so many lives to learn even that.
Readers have written to me expressing their sympathy for Greachin, noting that he doesn't seem all bad. Others have written to me hoping to see Greachin pay for his sins, to face punishment for what he's done.
Greachin's not like us. He's never had a girlfriend, he's never had a child, he's never had a pet to nurture—but does that mean he won't? Does that mean he can't?
I'm not answering that for you, not just now. I'm just sayin'.
The thing about us spiritual beings—we are all, inevitably, cut from the same cloth. Some of us are more broken than others, but we are all made of the same spiritual "stuff." We just are. There is nothing else to animate our forms. We are life, embodied. We are energy, love, transcendence, undiluted and unleashed on the universe. We are raw magic.
Are you going to look into the face of magic and say "You'll never…"? Are you the one to tell pure love "You can't…"?
What is possible?
I used to teach a journaling class, at a local center for patients who had been diagnosed with a serious neurological disorder. Many of them were going through life-changing adjustments, thanks to their health. They had a lot to deal with, so I led them in courses on journaling. We did all kinds of exercises, I answered questions, and they wrote, wrote, wrote. But you know what the first thing I asked every batch of students was?
"Class, what's the first rule of journaling?"
They would look around the room nervously at one another, like kids in a grade school class. It was precious.
After I'd let them sweat a minute or two, I'd say "Take out your pens and open your journal." Once they did that, I'd say "Write this down: The first rule of journaling is There are No Rules to Journaling."
Once we got that out there, everyone breathed so much easier. This was going to be a fun class, an "easy" class, a class where they were free to do and say whatever they needed. And they did.
So, my dear readers, what's the first rule of Redemption? Is there some law that states that Greachin can't change, that he can't grow, that he can't discover within himself an actual heart? Can this monster be redeemed?
What do you think?
And if that's true of him, what's true of Fengrid? Oh, dear Lord, is Fengrid still out there? Is Fengrid coming?
Between you and me, dear reader, this is on my mind tonight because the inspiration for Fengrid and Greachin's karmic struggle, although an old wound, has been made so dazzlingly fresh of late, that I am struggling to carry the burden of it, although I am for the most part outside of it. It is just so heavy, it affects me, and affects me hard. When I think of these recent events, I wish I did not think of Fengrid and Greachin, and I wish I did not think to myself "Well, at least they are literary characters—they can be redeemed. The situation with So&So can not."
I would so much rather deal with the fantasy world, my friends. Not with these difficult realities.
They say that every character we write is really us—a part of us. The good, bad, and ugly, I suppose. Not a pretty picture, is it?
For the past couple of weeks, I've been holed up like Richard. I would so rather look to the stars, these days.
I chose this sea anemone illustration because it reminds me of Greachin, alone in the dark, only his feelers to guide him—and it reminds me of Fengrid, and Richard, and in a lesser case, Tom. All wounded, all alone, all quite terribly blind…but being made where and how and what they are, all they can do is be their dazzling, beautiful/terrible selves. And all we can do is wonder how much they know, and what will happen next.
Well, I will write what happens next. I know what happens next. I'm glad that at least in this book's reality, I can say that much, with certainty. If only life were as easy to call.
HEY, if you haven't read This Brilliant Darkness yet, get to know Greachin and the rest of the gang:
If you are a lover of printed books, pick up a copy from either Amazon, at the above link, or at one of two giveaways going on this weekend: Other Writers, Other Worlds is hosting an interview w/ yours truly, and a giveaway, and the wonderful review blog SweepingMe.com gave This Brilliant Darkness five stars, and is hosting a giveaway, as well.
Thanks for listening to me talk about this personal stuff tonight. Here's to a better tomorrow.
Sea anemones.
From The ocean world, by Louis Figuier, London, Paris, New York, 1872.
(Source: archive.org)
