Despite their friendship and mutual regard, the differences
between C. S. Lewis and J. R. R. Tolkien gradually drew the two apart. Beyond Lewis’ marriage to Joy Gresham, a
woman Tolkien disproved of, and beyond Lewis’ friendship with Charles Williams,
a cult-like figure whose wild imaginings broke the rules of what Tolkien
considered proper storytelling and religious belief, there was the matter of
Lewis’ literary success. Tolkien enjoyed
acclaim in scholarly circles, and his first novel The Hobbit was successful enough to warrant a sequel.
But throughout the years of their friendship, Lewis enjoyed far more
success as an author. One need only
compare the two men’s bibliographies to appreciate the yawing gap that
separated them in this regard.
While Tolkien plodded along quietly on The Lord of the
Rings, Lewis kept the editors at his publishing houses ecstatic with his
prodigious output. The Narnia
series proved the bitterest pill for Tolkien to swallow.
He regarded the Narnia books as ill conceived and structurally
unsound. With each volume, Lewis produced
a jumble of Fantasy constructs, such as Father Christmas, talking animals, and
centaurs. Where was the cohesive system,
the history and culture, the underlying rationale that would account for a collection of elements drawn from such unrelated historical and mythological
sources? If it existed, Tolkien could
not perceive it. Instead, it seemed to
him as if Lewis simply threw out a new character, creature, or idea when the
plot began to slow, or when he needed to steer the story in a different
direction. This might not be something
as wild and improper as Williams’ stories, but it lacked the consistency and
the structure that Tolkien had thought Lewis believed in. Worse, the Narnia books were universally
praised and loved.
At times, I’ve had difficulty looking at the People and
Publishing section of Locus Magazine.
Each month, the magazine lists a slew of book deals made between publishers
and authors. Books are contracted. Manuscripts are delivered. Advances are paid. Film, television, and other lucrative rights
are sold. Awards are bestowed. Meanwhile, I labor away in obscurity,
never quite finishing my stories, always believing that I’m pursuing the proper
course. Yet, like a mirage, completion lingers just beyond my reach. Of course, I envy my fellow writers for their achievements. Yet…I am who I am. Wishing I were someone different will not
help me in any way.
So what if some authors, like C. S. Lewis, publish several
bestselling books each year? So what if others,
like Charles Williams, have built an enthusiastic following? What is that to me? I have my own destiny to fulfill. I must swallow the bitter pill of patience, and
celebrate the triumphs of my contemporaries. Only in that
way can I retain a positive perspective, and contribute to the lives of others, regardless of whatever success eventually
comes my way.
Dragon Dave
