As you may have noticed, this post is slightly on the long side – it is, in fact, the surprise big thing I'm sure you have been eagerly awaiting. And really, it's more like three and a half posts rolled into one. I apologize. If you do not read it, I will not be offended. I am sure you have better things to do with your time. Also, if you have not read The Last Battle recently, or at least remember the basic premise of the last couple chapters, this post will not make an iota of sense. (Go on, reread it, I'll wait.) However, if you are feeling exceptionally bored, brave, or in a C.S. Lewis sort of mood, read on.
I love C.S. Lewis. I adore C.S. Lewis. Sometimes if I haven't read anything of his in a while, I go into C.S. Lewis withdrawal. He is clever and imaginative in plots and perspectives, he knows far more than any Anglican really has a right to know, and he writes beautifully. In fact, my own writing style has been irreversibly altered by his. Not to mention everything he ever wrote (except his poetry. Please never try to find his poetry. There's a very good reason no one knows he wrote any) is marvelously fun to read.
That being said, I have one major problem with C.S. Lewis. Actually, I have two, but the other one is a bit personal and is probably best left off the internet. The problem I am addressing here has to do with Susan. I think it is terribly, terribly unfair what he did to Susan in the last Narnia book. (Note: if you have not read Narnia, you have no business reading this blog when you have far better things to be reading. While you're at it, read Till We Have Faces and the Space Trilogy too.) He let her down just because she was not the Innocent or the Repentant or the High King. She was just Susan. And it's not right.
Now, I hope you'll bear with me while I talk a little about fan fiction. I used to hate fan fiction. HATE. It was what the devil would write if he had any creative inclinations. I even had a strong distrust of open worlds, where an author lets other writers publish things set in his/her own created world – good examples of these are Star Wars and Dragonlance. I thought people who wrote fan fiction were even lower down on the scale of creativity and worth than rappers (no offense to any rappers out there. I mean a lot lower down.). What changed my mind? I started writing.
Once I was (somewhat) seriously writing fiction of my own, I realized that sometimes there really is more than one way a story could go, and it's equally good. But the author can only choose one. I realized that there are going to be things left out, and sometimes it's okay to explore them. Now, my acceptance of fan fiction has a few caveats. I still am rather wary of it, and haven't actually found much that was good enough to read (though I have been known to guiltily enjoy some of the Star Wars stuff). And of course I still abhor the monstrosity known as “slashfic,” which is basically just porn with some famous characters' names stuck on. With regards to that, I maintain my position that it is written by Satan himself. And also I'm pretty sure that every Harry Potter fanfic ever is a abomination. But I have decided that on some rare occasions, fan fiction can be done tastefully and in a way that enhances the original, or at least doesn't degrade it. And I certainly hope so, because I'm about to write some.
Back to Susan. As I said, it was horrifically unfair of Lewis to drop her like that for the sake of an unnecessary example. In my personal opinion, characters are people too and they deserve to be treated with respect. Not that everything has to turn out perfect (or even well), but they at least ought to be treated like people and not symbols. Enter my fanfic. I'm not interfering with the story itself, of course – I still despise that. And I could never hope to reproduce Lewis' style – so I didn't try, and anyway it wouldn't really have fit. But I hope I've been true to Susan's character and the world of the story, and that this is a faithful representation of what might be. For Susan, as you know, has not quite begun her story yet. And if that's so, well – there's still time to make a few changes to the title page.
_____
Susan's Broken Heart
“I believe he's looking at you, Susan.”
“What, Tom?” said Susan. She glanced over to the corner, where a gangly young man was indeed gawking at the two girls. “Please, Judith, I certainly hope I can do better than Tom.”
“No, not Tom,” Judith hissed. “Over there – careful, he really is looking now.” Susan tilted her head slightly so as to look behind her. She caught the eye of a tall, handsome man sitting by himself, and gave him a very small smile with her eyes half-closed before turning back to her conversational partner.
“Oh,” she said, “now that is a different matter.”
“That's Hugh Wood! He's one of the most successful businessmen in London! And only twenty-two. Honestly, I was surprised he accepted my invitation at all. Usually he goes to much better parties.”
“Well then, he could hardly have an interest in me,” said Susan, but she smirked as she said it.
“Don't be ridiculous, Susan. There's hardly a man anywhere who could see you and not 'have an interest'.” Judith's eyebrows went down a bit, then lifted to halfway up her forehead. “He'll ask you to dance, I'm sure of it!”
“No, he won't. He hasn't danced with anyone all evening.”
“Ah! You've been watching him!” said Judith. Susan looked pleased with herself and a bit embarrassed.
“Hmm,” she said. “Do you think he would dance at a party of mine?”
“Ooh, are you giving one? It would be your first!”
“I have been thinking about it, actually. Mother and Father will be back from Bristol next week, and they could help me plan for it.”
“Oh yes, do! And you must invite Hugh. And do let me help you with the guest list. I know lots of young men who would love to come. Oh, Susan you must! But don't you worry your little brother and sister will get in the way?”
“Not at all,” said Susan. “They're away as often as not, visiting some boring old professor. Lucy's not at all interested in parties and things. Probably not even Peter would come.”
“Hm, too bad,” said Judith.
“Oh, stop it!” laughed Susan. But Judith suddenly let out a muffled squeak.
“Oh! He's getting up! He's coming this way, Susan!” her voice had sunk to a breathless whisper. But Hugh was stopped by another man in a gray suit, who seemed very intent on saying something to him. Susan quickly pulled out her lipstick and applied another coat to her already deep red lips.
“Do I look all right?” she asked Judith.
“Your dress is a little crooked – there.” Susan adjusted her dress and glanced back again. Hugh was still talking to the suited man. “Here's another song starting up, I'm sure he'll ask you!” said Judith.
Susan felt a hand on her shoulder. She looked up coyly, but, to her disappointment, it was only a maid. “A telephone call for you in the parlor, Miss Pevensie.”
“Oh,” said Susan distractedly, looking back at the handsome businessman. “Take a message.”
“Susan,” said the maid, and for no reason at all Susan's heart suddenly felt cold as ice. “You should take it, Miss.” Susan noticed the girl's hands were trembling. She rose, walked slowly through a room which seemed to have fallen utterly silent, and picked up the phone.
The cab pulled up in front of the Pevensie house. Susan stared at its dark windows.
“You be all right, Miss?” asked the cabbie. “Cause I got an aspirin here, if you're not feelin well.”
“No, I mean, yes, I'm fine,” said Susan.
“Only you look so pale,” said the cabbie, but Susan was already getting out.
“Miss, your purse,” he called after her. She retrieved the bag and hurried to the door. Her mind was empty. She had already forgotten the party, forgotten the hurt look on Judith's face when she had rushed out without explanation; forgotten, it seemed, all she had ever known, except for one thing.
The dark sky seemed unbearably vast and she so exposed under it. She fumbled in her purse for the house key. Quickly – quickly, where is it – ? In her haste she let go of one side, and the contents of the pursed tumbled out; her mirror to smash on the concrete, her lipstick to roll away into the bushes. Her contacts book flopped weakly to the ground like a wounded bird. She heard the key fall too, with a metallic jangle. It was too much. Susan sunk to the ground, gasping and sobbing tearlessly. It was too much, it was all too much. How could she do anything, how could she even open that door? How could she ever stand again? Her shoulders shook and heaved.
When she finally picked up the key and turned it in the lock, her face was dry and very, very pale.
Inside, she let the key drop to the floor; it was too much effort to keep it in her hand. She took one step, then another, walking down the hall that led to her bedroom. She walked past the table full of photographs. There was one of her parents' wedding. There was Peter at his graduation, and there was her. There was one of Peter and Edmund and Lucy and Susan –
She took another step. There was a painting, done a few years before. Lucy wasn't a bad artist, but she would insist on drawing these silly –
Susan slammed the frame face-down onto the table, but she could still feel the two great eyes, staring with more intensity than paint could give. She remembered one more thing.
She turned and fled to her room. She stumbled inside. Then Susan collapsed, with her head and arms on her bed, and wept like her heart was broken.
Behind her, the light from the hall carved a broad golden pathway in through her open door.
ooh. guess what, I like this
ReplyDelete