Bishop is one of only a select number of authors picked from thousands during an open submissions call that Harper Voyager held a few years ago. His books are urban fantasy, with faery folk, reminiscent of Charles de Lint and Emma Bull. Here, he speaks about The Awesomeness of the Bittersweet.
As someone who has struggled on and off with depression since my adolescent years, it's probably not a shock--and some would argue less than healthy--that I just love the bittersweet. Not the chocolate, though that isn't bad. I'm talking about music, movies, books, and art in general. I love scenes, songs, or images that are sad, but filled with hope, and the promise of tomorrow, a new day where anything is possible. The power of the emotion, the magic and the power of it fuels me, both in my life and in my creative endeavors. Music, books, movies, every kind of art, it all serves to connect us. When the artist creates, that creation is imbued with some of their soul, an emotional snapshot of them at that moment in time. I can relate to the bittersweet moments. That's probably why I love the songs of Sarah McLachlan, The Cowboy Junkies, and Tom Waits. Each of them excels at wrapping sadness around a glimmer of hope that can't be extinguished.
Of course there are moments in life of pure, unbridled joy: hearing someone say they love you, the smile of your child when they look at you, or achieving a hard won success. Those moments are treasures to be sure, but rarely is bliss ever an immaculate conception. Often it's born from hard work, pain, turmoil, sadness, or grief. Life tends to be complicated and messy, but there is beauty in that mess. And I think we all see it. I believe we all know that the pain will end, and in the ending there is a happiness all its own. There are all sorts of cliches, but the one that has stayed with me the longest is: if you weep because you miss the sun, you also miss the stars. Like all cliches, there is something profound in the simplicity.
When I was really struggling with my depression, I found a book titled Man's Search for Meaning, by Viktor Frankl. It's about his time at the Auschwitz concentration camp during World War II. He is taken there, separated from his wife and sees the utter worst humanity has to offer, and I use the word humanity in its loosest possible sense. During his time there, never knowing the fate of his wife, parents, or siblings, he struggles to find meaning, a reason to continue on. After reading this book I knew that if this man could find purpose in a nightmarish place like that, surely I could as well. So I set to find happiness in the cracks and crevices of the everyday, and that became my purpose.
But as I matured I came to see that every emotion had value. They all could be debilitating if not tempered by another. Haven't we all rolled our eyes at the sickly sweet, lovey-dovey couples of the world? We all know that past a certain age, there is no perpetual state of happiness, and those who seem to achieve it often come across as delusional. Sometimes it's okay to be sad, to be angry, to grieve, to weep. And isn't there a special kind of happiness in offering comfort to someone who needs it? The key is not to let those darker emotions overcome you, to slip from merely experiencing them into wallowing in them.
That's why I love the bittersweet. It's like an entire life experience all in one dose. I recently watched Inside Out with a friend, and we both got a little misty eyed when Bing-Bong fades away. Sorry, spoilers. It's a sad moment, one we can all probably relate to. It's a piece of childhood slipping away, losing a friend you know you'll never see again for the first time. But there's more to that scene. There is also the hope in the understanding that it's also the beginning of another journey. That the sun might be setting, but it will rise again on a new world, and they will both be beautiful, filled with possibility.
We all listen to sad songs when we're sad, at least everyone I know does. So often we chide ourselves for it, seeing it as wallowing in self-pity. But that's not really what we're doing. We're grieving for something, or someone, lost; for a future we hoped for that won't ever come to pass. More than that though, we're remembering. So often we forget that, which is ironic really. When we listen to that same song, or watch that same movie, over and over, we're reliving the joys of the past. We think we're grieving for their loss, but we don't lose them. What we're really grieving is that there won't be more like that. And we're right, there won't be, but there will be new joys.
It's that feeling that I try to capture in my books. Each ends on a hint of sadness, but with the light of hope just visible on the horizon.If you finish one of my books and you're crying, that's okay, but I also hope you're smiling as well. There is no darkness that won't eventually end at sunrise. There is always hope. That's what the bittersweet means to me. It is the happiness we find, that we hold on to, and carry with us for our entire lives. Sure, we might find some sadness and carry that for a time as well, but we have to eventually let it go. When we do, there is more room for new happiness. So listen to sad songs, watch sad movies, but always find the bliss behind that sorrow. Experience the latter because it reminds you of the former, and always be looking to the horizon for the rising sun of a new day.
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