Author: Dana @ Pen and Fire

The Zephyr Christmas Files

Dana @ Pen and Fire6 Comments

Dear faithful readers, occasional stalkers, and you with the wrong link to another site:

I’ve posted very sporadically in recent months due to grad school consuming most my time and energy. Since I have a brief break, I’ve been inspired by various sources (the holidays, the weather, real life + fiction, etc.) to write a wintry tale in epistolary form for fun. I’ll post installments here on a hopefully-close-to-daily basis through the New Year. I’m really just flying by the seat of my pants (no plot outline, no particular ending in mind, no profound Point), but I hope it’ll bring you some laughter and cheer if you choose to follow along. If not, I’ll simply amuse myself.

Zephyr1

Part I. Driving Tickets and Baristas

E-MAIL SENT ON December 24, 2015 AT 12:03:44 AM
From Darby Chan to Avery Chan

Dear Avery,

It’s midnight, and I’m writing this beside some half-waxed, dying candlelight. I think I’ve found the eighteenth century. Curse your magnanimous spirit for spending winter break in a third world country with no wireless or data plan. I’m warning you, if I send more than three of these with no response, I’ll stop writing and start planning your funeral. Curse Jansen’s driving too. We were supposed to arrive hours ago if we weren’t pulled over on the way. $300 for going 15 mph over the limit. Margaret feels bad, so she promised to write a letter for him to contest it.

I told him he could work the resort coffee counter to scrape the cash together.

In other news—there is none. It’s freezing. If the heater ever goes out in this place, you’ll need to come haul my frozen carcass away. I wish we had picked Jamaica or somewhere tropical. It’s these unwavering, immigrant genetics we have that simply won’t allow me to pass up a good deal. I’m beginning to understand why this place offered us half price.

But I can’t complain (aloud, at least, so expect to get the brunt of it). I dragged M and J into this. I guess I can try skiing again?

I miss you. Sorry about this poor excuse for a first email. It’s late and this keyboard is starting to feel like a giant ice cube. I want to say something worthwhile, knowing you’ll only get to check in once in awhile. I’ll try to improve.

Please don’t die.

Darby

P.S. It’s not really terrible here. The current guy at the coffee counter isn’t bad looking. I’ll send you a picture sometime if I get a chance.

–

GROUP MESSAGE SENT ON December 24, 2015 AT 7:13:22 AM
From Juki to D-Chan, Mags

Christmas Eve, kids!!! Hope you have your presents for me ready.

–

GROUP MESSAGE SENT ON December 24, 2015 AT 7:20:45 AM
From D-Chan to Juki, Mags 

Coughed up your $300 yet?

–

GROUP MESSAGE SENT ON December 24, 2015 AT 7:21:13 AM
From Juki to D-Chan, Mags

 Remind me why I’m on vacation with you.

–

GROUP MESSAGE SENT ON December 24, 2015 AT 7:21:57 AM
From D-Chan to Juki, Mags 

No one else wants you.
I’m going to breakfast. Meet you guys there.

–

ZEPHYR MOUNTAIN CABIN BREAKFAST MENU

Zephyr’s Black Diamond Breakfast
Two sausages, three eggs, and stack of buttermilk pancakes

Zephyr’s Blue Square Breakfast
Two eggs, chocolate chip or strawberry jam waffles

 Zephyr’s Bunny Slope Breakfast
Fruit and granola 

–

EMAIL SENT ON December 24, 2015 AT 7:43:52 AM
From Darby Chan to Avery Chan 

[COFFEE_GUY.JPEG]

Sent from iPhone

–

MESSAGE SENT ON December 24, 2015 AT 8:05:12 AM
From Jansen to Margaret 

Overslept? Darby’s got a crush. Commence: Operation Love Story?

–

GROUP MESSAGE SENT ON December 24, 2015 AT 8:20:19 AM
From Mags to D-Chan, Juki

 Guys. This is an inhuman hour to be up during break.

–

MESSAGE SENT ON December 24, 2015 AT 8:20:40 AM
From Margaret to Jansen 

Let me guess, the coffee guy. And no. Darby + men = Bad Things Happen.

–

E-MAIL SENT ON December 24, 2015 AT 8:25:31 AM
From Margaret Lewis to Jen Lewis 

Hey Mom – Texts and calls can’t seem to get past the mountain range. But we’ve made it. We’ll probably go skiing, I’ll try to fit some writing in, and Darby and Jansen will probably want to pull a few crazy stunts (read: fun, adventurous, but decidedly not life-threatening).

It’s a nice, cozy cabin for a sweet deal Darby found. Sorry again to miss Christmas this year. But she adamantly refused to go home, and we couldn’t let her head into the mountains alone. Darby hasn’t said much about it still, and I’m not sure how to bring it up. Should I wait for her to say something?

People confuse the heck out of me.

Love to Dad, Laurie, and Grinchkins.

Margaret

–

GROUP MESSAGE SENT ON December 24, 2015 AT 8:29:21 AM
From Juki to Mags, D-Chan 

…I’m a man.

–

GROUP MESSAGE SENT ON December 24, 2015 AT 8:29:53 AM
From D-Chan to Juki, Mags 

???
What else have you been keeping from us?

–

GROUP MESSAGE SENT ON December 24, 2015 AT 8:30:19 AM
From Juki to Mags, D-Chan

Wrong thread.

–

MESSAGE SENT ON December 24, 2015 AT 8:31:20 AM
From Margaret to Jansen

 Typical.

Magnolia

Dana @ Pen and FireLeave a comment

I loved her once, this girl who fell through Time:
She laughed at princes but blushed a ruby sky.
In dusk’s last glimmer, I saw her yearning
for a home that soothed her soul’s burning,
as she wore the panoply of stars in her eyes.

Magnolia, magnolia
the autumn winds are fair and mornings bright
Magnolia, magnolia
yours is the distant hope, mine a futile life.

I loved her once, this girl who longed to die:
Yet strange, I ne’er found such wit and fervent fire.
She spoke against monarchs and befriended slaves,
called the golden palace naught but a cage.
If only I could give her wings to fly.

Magnolia, magnolia
the branches strip bare before winter’s might
Magnolia, magnolia
yours is the truest heart, mine the cruelest fight.

I loved her once, this girl I would make a queen:
But an empire carved in bones and wrath
casts the longest shadow and loneliest path.
I loved her still, this girl who only asked for peace:
My fragile flower, my faraway dream.

Magnolia, magnolia
your once sweet fragrance has turned bitter
Magnolia, magnolia
still my heart cannot bear to see you wither.

Magnolia, magnolia
what agony, what ecstasy, brought your world to mine?
Magnolia, magnolia
Time ‘tis but a fleeting breath for two lives entwined.

 

(Not-so-loosely inspired by this series.)

An Assortment of Unspoken Words

Dana @ Pen and Fire7 Comments

Can you piece a life together from the words that go unsaid? Sometimes, I think the things we never say—because of missed opportunity, fear, or delayed realization—define us more deeply than the words we bring into the world.

An experimental drabble. Undefined mixture of fiction and reality. Take it however you will.

–

She told me there were tears in your eyes at the end of the day. We were catty schoolgirls with masks over our hollowness before I understood—in the trenches of my heart, not just Sunday school—what it meant to be a sinner. I wish I knew where you were so I could tell you: I’m sorry. I’ve had my heart broken by grief, but I’ve learned that time mends wounds yet magnifies regrets. I can live with scars. It’s harder to think I’ve caused yours.

–

I am waiting for you to be the miracle story I tell. Will the scales fall off? I am afraid to say how I am afraid for you. You are my longest, trembling prayer, the one I never forget, the one that brings me to my knees.

–

You were the flesh-and-blood embodiment of Taylor’s music. She just wasn’t famous then and I was too scared to dream.

–

I looked through my old yearbook but it didn’t list your first name. I wonder if you’re still a missionary, or a teacher again. I wonder if you ever had a daughter, and if she turned out anything like me (I hope not, for your sake). Thank you for answering childish questions kindly, for giving me second chances, for teaching me about the assurance of salvation in a simple sentence. If we don’t meet on this side of eternity again, please wait to trade stories with me in golden streets.

–

Sometimes I hated that you couldn’t take anything seriously. But I wish we stayed friends, if just for the silly, stupid reason that I miss your jokes.

Summer Thunder

Dana @ Pen and Fire2 Comments

I woke up last night to the skies rumbling—like horsemen storming through the heavens, white light lancing through the thunderclouds. Curtains of water unleashed on our dry and thirsty streets. They fell in ceaseless waves, like mercy and mourning.

Do you ache for the broken beauty? The splendor of creation, diminished in our minds and narrowed to the small confines of our festivities, troubles and traffic jams.

We spin in the familiar orbit of our daily routines, insignificant creatures on a blue orb soaring through space. Stars wink out of the universe, their violent gaseous flames extinguished, and our lives continue untouched. Galaxies bend and spiral into a black unknown and we linger on, blissfully unaware. What is man, that You are mindful of him?

But when the thunder rolls, I am cut with heavenly hunger.

We spin, a world made for heaven but flying straight towards hell. We stand at once in rebellion and in shame, with one hand thrown into a fist against the skies and another chained to the collar of corruption. People cry out in a hailstorm of contradictions. Truth is a joke and life is cheap. But still we fight so hard—stirring words and bloody bodies—but for what?

We hate hypocrites yet find them in the mirror. I will preach the full and unmatchable value of life, of the equal worth in yours and mine. But when the waters rise, I’ll know, painfully and clearly, how empty pretty words are if I can’t trade my mortality for yours.

How much we need someone who sees us all the way to the core, in a wreck of frailty and failure, and loves us even in agony.

Do you ache for glory undimmed? Think hard and search deeply and tell me. Because I don’t believe you’re an existentialist. You don’t want to watch the world burn. You want to be on the right side of history with your trumpet of justice and kindness, these noble things that have no meaning in a world that exploded from nothing for no purpose. Simply to spin and spin and spin and die.

Like a diamond in the rough, lies only spring from pale imitations of truth. And it is there—the truth and the glory—gleaming beneath the dirt and grime. A crimson flower, blooming in the ashes of ravaged land. Creation groans, but not without the silver edge of hope on the horizon.

I listen to the rainfall and the roar. The mercy and the mourning. Our little corner of our small world trembles quietly.

But one day the skies will rend wide open for Heaven and Earth to collide. You will fling off the dark covers and creation will shrug off its old burdens. Shadows flee. Beauty unbroken. Glory undimmed.

Have we seen Light, until we see that day?

 

Inspiration 101

Dana @ Pen and Fire3 Comments

“Oh Captain my captain!”

I watched Dead Poet’s Society a few days ago for the second time, and it was even better than I remembered. Robin Williams was gold as Mr. Keating, and I didn’t fully appreciate before what a stellar supporting cast he had (Ethan Hawke? Josh Charles? well, I had no idea who these people were when I watched it in high school). The story builds up to a tragedy, but it is not without humor and triumph. It is innocent, but not naïve; philosophical, but accessible; wise, but not preachy.

It made me wonder about the stories that inspire us. What springboards something from unremarkable to unforgettable? I thought it was one of those hazy, hard-to-define things but I wanted to pinpoint a few key elements. You could say some stories just have it, a mysterious, magical X factor, but crafting a good tale isn’t like waving a wand. So I thought through my favorite books and films and came away with some common themes.

A hero who overcomes what we cannot

The stories that take a step beyond the plane of reality give themselves the liberty to create a larger-than-life protagonist: someone who can fight the battles and lead the charges that ordinary people can only dream of. They stand against seemingly insurmountable odds, and they sometimes stand alone (or at least vastly outnumbered). Basically, every superhero movie or fantasy novel where good defeats evil in a glorious spectacle.

They are the characters we will never be, but they move us with their valor and nobility. We may not have their abilities, but we can aspire to live with the same spirit.

A hero who overcomes a relatable weakness

I think there’s a large class of people that we’d look down on in the streets, but we’d love if we found them between the pages of a book.

While we’d all like to be crushing villains and taking names, most of us are fighting smaller, invisible battles each day. We’re frail, breakable, and often barely holding things together. When we don’t know someone’s heart, it’s easy to judge by appearance. That’s the wonderful thing about stories—they teach us what is often hidden behind facades in real life. They make us cheer for the poor, geeky outcast who, let’s be honest, not many of us would have befriended in real life. They make us fall in love with a man who few would probably tolerate the company of (yes, you, Mr. Darcy).

Awkwardness. Fear of what people think. Anger over irrational issues. Relationship problems. When we find characters beating the challenges we face ourselves, it inspires us to keep fighting too.

A vision of the future that is better than today’s reality

Hope and hopelessness, the two opposite ends of the spectrum, are both capable of instigating reckless actions. Our society is familiar with the latter. Desperate men with nothing to lose can do an extraordinary amount of damage.

But hope can lead to reckless living too—in a good way. Paul was utterly sold out for Christ because he believed in the deepest part of him that his present suffering could not compare to the glories to come. In fiction, this may be best seen in fantasy or sci-fi. Heroes who refuse to live under a shadow of evil or fear, who will give their all for the sake of a brighter future.

Hope can make humanity rise above a bleak reality.

Style

Style without substance is meaningless. But substance without style can range from boring to terrible. Style binds good substance together and makes it shine.

There are stories with all the “right” elements jammed in but executed poorly. Not going to name names, but we all know the ones that had so much potential in character or premise—and they flopped.

And there are some stories that are made great by their stylistic choices. If The Book Thief were narrated by anyone else, it would not be as brilliant. Probably still a decent story, but not stunning or truly set apart. Every single human being has many ordinary stories they can tell. Only a few become classics, and while it’s most often what you have to say, how you say it can also set the literary world spinning.

So…lights! Pens! Action! What inspires you? That, to me, is one of the great purposes of art and storytelling. We don’t create fiction in a vacuum: we create to reflect reality and inspire people to live more boldly and compassionately.

Carpe diem!

Still Growing Up – Thoughts on “Go Set a Watchman”

Dana @ Pen and Fire2 Comments

Oh hey. I know I’ve vanished for the better part of a month – life changes, busyness, lack of inspiration, and all that jazz. But I’m back, and with a (long-winded, most likely) review of Go Set a Watchman, which I couldn’t resist buying early and devouring in the course of a day. I was apprehensive as some early reviews drifted into my purview – everything from the book being a shameless money grab, to Lee ruining one of the most beloved literary figures of all time – but I have an incurable sense of curiosity. And, in all honesty, I wasn’t going to not read a To Kill a Mockingbird sequel. Some spoilers ahead. 

CHILDHOOD, CAPTURED

Harper Lee has such as keen grasp of children, their nature and way of thinking. It was apparent in To Kill a Mockingbird, and she brings the same warmth and emotion to writing some significant flashback scenes in Watchman. This was one of my favorite parts of the book – finding new anecdotes of Scout’s early days in Maycomb, full of hilarity and moving character insights. There’s her, Jem and Dill reenacting a religious revival and Scout being caught naked by the reverend with her father; there’s Scout living with the terrible thought that she’s pregnant for nine months because of girlish rumors from school; and many more. Like Mockingbird, Lee continues to deal with some serious moral issues in her novel, but so much of her story is wrapped around simple tales of growing up in a small town with unforgettable characters, and how they leave a mark on you for life.

On a side note, I can understand why publishers wanted her to write Mockingbird and publish that instead because I found her flashback scenes to be the best part of Watchman, though they were scattered throughout in a much less structured plot than her first novel.

Did Harper Lee ruin Atticus?

This made me afraid of picking up the book, because Atticus is one of my favorite fictional characters, and if there was one unavoidable spoiler about Watchman, it was that Lee turned him into a racist. Maybe this made me brace for the very worst, because I thought she made him into some kind of a raving madman – but it was quite the contrary. I actually found him terribly consistent as a character. Still a gentleman through and through, with a sharp mind and opinions entirely his own. Yes, you can quote him from Mockingbird and quote him from Watchman and be horrified at some of these juxtapositions, but he is still Atticus. I won’t get into the politics and race relations (and I’m sure this has been and will continue to be one of the book’s most talked about aspects), but I will simply say this regarding his character: Atticus is human, and the philosophy and culture of his times inevitably will have their effect on him, just as they do on all of us. This isn’t to justify his views, but to understand him, and how Lee humanizes him.

The outrage over his character is mirrored in the outrage Scout feels as she tells the story. I wonder if it’s poetic in one sense – that we have “grown up” with Scout, we have idolized Atticus with her, and we have watched him fall, all through her eyes. Atticus is no longer the hero of this story, his daughter is. Lee uses his character’s evolution as a springboard for developing Scout – she would not have the passion and conviction she does if she wasn’t her father’s daughter, and she would not have shown it in Watchman if her father remained exactly the same.

Still Growing Up

One review I read put it this way: Mockingbird is about Scout discovering her father is a god; Watchman is about Scout discovering her father is not a god. My take on it is this: Mockingbird is about a young girl discovering the world and its people can be extraordinarily, irrationally cruel. Watchman is about a young woman discovering that even our heroes are human. It is another tale of growing up, another coming of age, but in a more nuanced and specific way. Haven’t we all experienced both? Isn’t the reality of our heroes’ flaws so much more painful than the reality of the world’s brokenness? Atticus was never perfect – but he was nearly that in Scout’s eyes for most her life. One story is about shedding some of childhood’s innocence, another is about coming more fully into adulthood.

Overall, Watchman was good. Compared to the average novel put out today, it’s very good. Compared to Mockingbird, it falls short. The narrative flow of Watchman is not as strong, and the emotional impact is heavily dependent on its predecessor – the blow Scout feels from Atticus is doubled if you know the Atticus of Mockingbird (though Lee brings a lot of that to light within her new book too). The scene with Cal is heartbreaking. Yet, her storytelling ability, sense of humor, and understanding of human nature is still excellent, uniquely hers, and reminiscent of her first classic.

I’ll admit, I breathed a sigh of relief when I closed the book still loving Scout and Atticus. And sure, someone’s in this for the marketing and money, but I had a good time too – so thanks for unearthing Watchman. 

The Truth About Your Fairytale

Dana @ Pen and Fire2 Comments

Yesterday, you told me about a boy who wears a crooked grin and plays with hearts like they’re poker cards. We sat in a rundown coffee shop, our piping hot cappuccinos blowing smoke into your tired eyes. Like Han Solo, you said, and a ghost of a smile reached your lips. I wasn’t sure if it came from a memory or the knowledge that I’d appreciate the reference.

I’m sorry, I said, before you even told me the story. Because you are like me—not a Princess Leia, who looks stunning in white and inspires men to die for good causes. No, we are Meg Ryan from Sleepless in Seattle, closet romantics until our idealism gets stomped all over. We are the ones who believe in soulmates, first love, and forever. We are from a generation raised on a diet of fairytales, and the first broken heart we meet is our own.

Yesterday, I told you about a boy whose antics could put Nora Ephron to shame. He wasted gas, sleep, and dreams on me. He made August nights perpetually sound like Ed Sheeran and my apartment smell like Calvin Klein. But it’s not like the books, I murmured. The sweetness comes with scars, and the idea of having eternity in one moment is a myth. If we could, why do we always want more? How absurdly helpless we are to squeeze the infinite into a flickering breath.

Is it better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all? Yes, you whispered, adamant, but I know that’s your romanticism battling down your grief. That was always my response too—almost born more out of principle than conviction. Almost, but not quite. Because I think I would have loved him anyway, knowing it would end. I might have judged you, but for that realization, I ached with you instead. We are all fools in love, I offered, drawing upon the inimitable wisdom of Jane Austen.

Young, innocent, and a little heartbroken: it makes a cocktail of daring and desperation.

Yesterday, you told me you were waiting. Waiting for the pain to pass, waiting to be the Cinderella in your fairytale. Waiting for the one who would sweep in and make all the past a distant thing. It’s like I’m holding onto a single glass slipper, waiting for someone to knock on my door with the other one. I don’t know if he’s lost, stuck in traffic, or nonexistent. We laughed, and sometimes I think that is our greatest answer to agony.

The coffee burned in my throat going down. I don’t think he’s coming, I said.

Perhaps it is better to have loved and lost, but it is best to love and never lose. I think that’s what we’re made for, and that’s what our fairytales are grasping for. We are not created for tragic romances and hurting hearts. Romeo and Juliet sagas romanticize a broken reality, but Cinderella stories reach for Eden-like eternity. We don’t have the words that follow happily ever after because we haven’t lived that tale yet.

Someone who will cover all your scars and never leave you with another one—he isn’t coming.

He’s been knocking on your door for a long time already.