Kim Batchelor

Writer of magical realism and other imaginative fiction

Space

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My memories of childhood and my father are most vivid around his love of the space program. Even though he worked nights, he often got up very early to watch the latest launch, sometimes with my younger brother beside him. Once I decided, for some reason, that I would stay up all night. At 5 am, before I finally went to sleep, I woke my father in time for him to see a space craft rocket into space.

Space. Aside from two astronomy courses in college, I never really gave it much thought. I’ve written before about how much the sky and stars and moon have inspired my life and my writing. But I’ve never been good at identifying constellations or ever wanted to own a telescope. And until my astronomy class, I never knew that the moon maintains an irregular orbit around the Earth.

Something changed all that. The Cosmos series and Neil DeGrasse Tyson. Recalling those awe-inspiring trips to the Fort Worth planetarium when I was younger. Seeing recent vivid images of the universe produced by NASA.

In previous posts, I have written of my fascination with the moon, stars, and skies. Only in the last few years have I thought much about the science of the universe. I just finished writing and revising a novel of a girl named Gwen introduced to astronomy by a great teacher. Gwen uses that interest to create comic books and finds herself, at times, traveling to faraway place in the universe. For two years, I’ve journeyed with her and I will miss her when I move on to world of my next novel.

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The Magic of a Circus of Dreams

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In our times, the circus is transforming. A famous circus closes its doors forever while Cirque de Soleil continues in all its many forms. Small circuses bring novelty and entertainment to small communities even as their reliance on animal acts—especially when those animals are abused—sparks outrage.

I have two memories of circuses growing up. The first is of a terrifying moment when a gorilla escaped and climbed into the stands where I sat with my family. In my panic, I tried to scale a poor woman sitting in the row in front of me, trying to make my getaway. My mother pulled me back into my seat and assured me that the gorilla was a man dressed in a gorilla suit.

More pleasant is the second memory of something that took place later that night. The evening approached midnight. All the acts but one had finished. I looked up at the ceiling, at what seemed to be the highest point in the tent. Through the darkness, a spotlight illuminated a woman dressed in gold grasped a gold swing, surrounded by a dangling gold moon and dangling gold stars.

The woman seemed so far away, so high above me. Without a doubt, it was the most enchanted moment in my life as a child. I sometimes remember it as a woman dangling from moon and stars, swinging and performing feats in the night sky itself.

One novel that helped me connect back to that moment was Erin Morgenstern’s The Night Circus. I loved the story of two dueling magicians, one female and one male, both wards of men caught in a perpetual and deadly rivalry. But what I loved most about the book was the circus itself.

All over the tents, small lights begin to flicker, as though the entirety of the circus is covered in particularly bright fireflies. The waiting crowd quiets as it watches this display of illumination. Someone near you gasps. A small child claps his hands with glee at the sight…Rather than a single tent with rings enclosed within, this circus contains clusters of tents like pyramids, some large and others quite small. They are set within circular paths, contained within a circular fence. Looping and continuous.

Lately I’ve been inspired to create my own story of a mystical circus—The Carnival of Moon and Stars is its working title. Unlike, The Night Circus, there are no magicians caught in a rivalry that they can’t control. Instead, a simple canvas tent hides a mystical world that is refuge for a girl named Angelique, a girl with a secret . A teenaged boy named Ash, a boy who spent his life on a farm just outside a small town, sees the tent in the distance from his bedroom window. He is drawn to it, hoping to discover something outside of his small world.

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Paris Me Parle

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It may be almost cliché to speak of Paris and how it draws expatriate writers (James Baldwin, Gertrude Stein, Ernest Hemingway, to name a few). No doubt a trip to Paris inspires the muse of most of us who regularly put pen to paper. (Or mouse to screen, if you insist.) The lure of the city for writers has never waned. As evidence, last month sci-fi writer Susan Kaye Quinn traveled to Paris. There, she met local writers and signed copies of her work at a bookstore.

I have had the good fortune to visit the city four times. Recent, sometimes tragic, events have taken me back to my last visit once again—in my memory. Those memories are all pleasant ones.

Spending more time than I ever have at the Louvre. Exploring artifacts from ancient Egypt and beautiful pieces from their Islamic collection. Being introduced to the mystical work of Gustav Doré at the Musee D’Orsay, my favorite place to spend time.

Wandering the streets near our apartment located between the Belleville and Republique metro lines. Pretending I actually live in Paris by enjoying eclairs from a neighborhood bakery and cheese from a local cheese shop. Meeting with a French tutor in a café near the Bastille.

Finally making the trek to Monet’s home and gardens in Giverny. On each trip, we never miss a few hours in the Luxembourg Gardens. From a park bench we spend at least one afternoon watching people walk by.

 

Fitting in

I recently saw someone post on Facebook a common belief about the city—Parisians don’t like people from the United States. I have found the opposite to be true, with one observation. I’m not the only person who will say that the reception will be much friendlier if a visitor knows a little French.

The best phrase I use if I get into any difficulty is: “Excusez-moi, je ne parle pas très bien français.” “Excuse me, but I don’t speak French very well.” I have never had a problem after that as whoever I’m speaking to graciously helps me. It is also important to say, “Bonjour” during the day and “Bonsoir” in the evening when first approaching someone.

Once in a bakery, I politely asked the man behind the counter about the éclairs we had not yet received with our tea. He threw his head back and cried out, “What a catastrophe!” in a way that made me laugh . After I took the plate of two eclairs, someone walked up to the counter and immediately said, “I’d like…” and started his order. The demeanor of the man behind the counter shifted from playful to deadly serious.

I suspect that customer came away with the belief that Parisians are all rude based on that one experience.

Pay Attention to It All

All the expected sites—the Eiffel Tower lit up at night, the boats on the Seine, the Notre Dame Cathedral—speak the loudest. On the other hand, I very much value the quieter voices of the city. The murals, the small tasks of daily life, and the lovely hair of three French schoolgirls on a boat floating down one of the city’s canals.

Residents of Paris may tire of the constant bustle of a big city and look forward to fleeing for quieter locations. I will always be one of the many outsiders—many of us writers—drawn to that city and continually find inspiration there.

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Lost Girls

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I have often wished into being a peaceful place for those who experience difficult lives. Perhaps a clearing in woods, a waterfall replenishing a quiet pond, a soft breeze always blowing through it. I wish for the scent of grass damp from morning dew and the perfume of assorted flowers coloring the ground around it.

Listening to the pain of those individuals is a privileged role. It’s not often an easy one. Not often a comfortable one. And not always a satisfying one. Still a privileged one, when someone shares their burdens and challenges.

As an educator and counselor in a clinic serving women, most of whom were in their teens and early 20s, I spent hours as a listener. Several times a day, I found myself sitting across from someone stressed, angry, weeping, hopeless. Often, I could provide some small measure of useful information. Often, I could only listen.

A well-dressed high school student wore a blank look as she related how she no longer had a place to live. We connected her with resources to find one. I wanted to take her home with me.

A 16-year-old girl traced the lines of her initials that she carved into her skin. Her mother’s boyfriend had assaulted her. Her mother took his side and forced her out of their home. The case was reported, as required, and I connected her with resources. The girl went on her way leaving behind that image of her scar tattooed into my memory, along with anger at her mother’s selfish actions.

I listened to the despair of a young woman who suffered from the agony of the aftermath of pelvic infections that left scarring. She shifted from anger into resignation after I explained the source of her pain. Only surgery could fix the problem—I could not fix her, the nurse could not fix her, but when we both assured her that the pain wasn’t just in her head, she managed a smile.

One morning on the way to work I listened to Joan Osborne singing, “What if God was One of Us?” A stranger on the bus trying to make his way home. Or a young woman struggling with addiction, exclusion, eviction, rejection. In the parking lot, I stayed in the car crying for a few moments before leaving it to start the day.

Some moments reminded me it was worth it. The woman I barely remember, beaming, who made a point of coming to tell me that she’d left her abusive boyfriend and had turned her life around because of my help. The teenager who didn’t care if she got pregnant who later requested birth control from the nurse after I asked her to put herself in the place of any baby she might conceive. And then there was the day that Tiffany showed up at the clinic, clear-eyed, in recovery, and employed outside of the sex industry. Smiling. A new woman.

I wanted to draw their pain from them, send it hurling through space to dash against a passing asteroid. At times, their stories feed mine. When I wrote of a girl who had to grow up too soon, I created an entire island for her to be a child again. When I wrote of a girl with an expansive imagination and a mother suffering from a serious illness, I gave her a starry sky and a quiet children’s garden in the midst of the city and a group of mentors and supportive friends.

I can only wish with an oasis for all the women I had the privilege to know. A place for them to feel safe, a place for quiet among the tumult of their lives. And even though I can’t make it for them, I send that wish out into the universe of quiet places.

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Light, Desert, Sky

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Last summer on the way to Santa Fe, New Mexico, I avoided the fastest most direct route from I40, opting instead for the ‘scenic route’ just east of the city. I’d taken that same route before, and only agreed to my spouse’s suggestion to take that road knowing that sundown was still an hour or so away.

What I hadn’t counted on was the mute light in the waning hours of the day, making the hairpin turns more treacherous and the shadows a substantial impediment to knowing if someone had drifted over to my side of the narrow two-lane road. In between those white knuckle moments, were periods of stunning beauty. I had never before seen the light play off the red soil like that afternoon. I couldn’t recall among my many trips to New Mexico the strands of muted sunlight bring out the details of the terrain so well as it did on that stretch at that time of day.

Later that weekend, on Museum Hill just outside Santa Fe, an afternoon cluster of storm clouds became more dramatic through the dark lenses of my sunglasses. The mountains in the distance stood out more prominently, as did the vortex center of those clouds that at that moment discreetly held the rain and the raw materials to fuel the lightning and thunder that flashed and boomed shortly after.

I’m not a trained photographer, so I didn’t get the photos that would do justice to either of these phenomena. All I can do is share painter Georgia O’Keefe’s vision of what she saw of the desert from her home in Abiquiú, New Mexico.

These observations made me think of writing in terms of illumination and darkness. Consider one example: a girl and her brother and their friend discovering the world. Illumination comes from the father of the boy and girl as he explains the implications of race in their community. Later, darkness threatens the girl and her brother, and in the shadows a mystical character reveals himself in order to save them both.  The book, of course, is To Kill a Mockingbird, and the characters are Scout and Jem Finch and their friend Dill. The mystical figure is one of my favorites from literature, Boo Radley. What reader of the book can forget Boo in the shadows, watching over a bed-ridden Jem?

We writers are weavers of light and darkness, daybreak and sundown. We hide the danger in spots of low-light along treacherous roads and call up turbulence just when everything seems calm in those bright blue skies. The safest story would have been for me to drive along the well-traveled freeway with nothing to hide. The struggle between darkness and light, shadow and filtered strands of sun make for a much more interesting ride.

In the end, I conquered my fear like any protagonist I would hope is worth reading about.

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Welcome.

I write for children. I write for adults. I write fiction short and long, real and fantastical, foreign and domestic.

Here you'll find my stories and links to my novels.

Thanks for stopping by, and pick up a snack on the way out.

Copyright Kim Batchelor