by Arion Wyckman

 

It is without question that Heather Lewis was, and still is today, a truly inspirational writer. Most innovative and original, daring and brave in her renditions of the human psyche, the human reality – precise and lethal in her accuracy – Heather does not illustrate. She depicts. There is no embellishment, no pre-organized comfort line in her work. No warning for the gravity that increases with every word in which she entangles us.

There is only the information. What we do with it, is ours. How we struggle with it, is up to us.

 

When the final sentence is read in any of her three novels, we, her readers, are left in limbo. We were offered an experience of reality, whether we were ready to understand or not – whether we already knew this reality, or not. And, these realities she offers us hit us harder than we thought they would, there is no point in denying it. There is no point in denying that Heather’s work was both embraced and rejected, for the reasons that it was.

There is no neatly edible package nor any conveniently detached narrative perspective in neither House Rules or Notice, only in The Second Suspect – Heather’s follow-up to render the story in Notice more acceptable to a then disapproving (mainstream?) audience. There is no bow of glimmering morality around her work to make these realities appear any more or less than what they are – it was only when (part of) the literary community demanded a bow, that Heather obliged in the form of The Second Suspect.

But even in this "cleaner" version of reality, as well as in Heather’s prior novels, literally everything is warped. And we, the readers, are left to puzzle.

 

And this, I believe, is one of Heather’s literary fortes – perhaps this is the reason why her work has been severely underrated even, I would say. She confronts the reader not just with the harsh reality of her books. No, in the end, and through her continuous refusal to illustrate, we are all confronted with our own realities. We are confronted with our own packages, our own bows. We are challenged, not unlike the protagonists in Heather’s work, to unwrap our illusions. To take a long good look at ourselves, and wonder. To question, and answer. If we dare.

 

Heather’s work has always been read in a dark and gloomy fashion. But, in between the trauma and pathologies of reality, in between her surgically precise wording, Heather had the literary power to turn the darkest moment into the lightest. Because, after all, is it not when we confront our blackest demons, that we have an opportunity to know the inner light that transgresses them all? Is it not in the final pages of her novels, that the women once bound and beaten, now choose to liberate themselves? Do they not choose, ultimately, to confront their worst nightmare, in a desperate yet conscious attempt to defeat it, perhaps without any weaponry at all, but instead with some pure and unaltered, uncensored introspection?

And like Heather’s protagonists, who descend into the pain to prove that they are still somehow breathing, we are challenged to confront what we fear. To challenge ourselves to understand these realities – our human reality – or fear more because of it. The only other alternative we have is to ignore – the way we have all been living for too long already. Maybe it is time for a change. As in both Lee's and Nina's stories, revelation only comes through acknowledging the real sources of pain.

A plead for this self-inflicted bite of the Apple, I feel, is quite obvious in yet another layer of meaning in the title Notice: ourselves.

 

The only thing we really (should) fear, is fear itself. And guilt is fear’s most loyal agent. They look out for one another, together fend off all true forms of love and security, and cause us to do the things that perpetuate their cycle. In any of the characters we meet in Heather’s work, the things that unite them all, are love and the hate that comes when we truly fear (to love) something. Be it either in lack or presence, love, fear and hate concern us all.

Heather, I think, understood this relationship between opposites better than most – even if she might’ve not been aware of this herself. It is a lesson learned when one is emerged in nothing but fear – is perhaps drowned by it – and chooses to simply look beyond. Is it not by staring into the face of death and destruction, that we perceive our own reflection?

Perhaps, if Heather had been aware of the human emotional illusion that is fear, she might’ve made a different choice that Saturday in May. But maybe she did know all this, and still saw no other option than to part ways with this wretched, flimsy place we call our world. In the end, it doesn’t really matter to any of us, does it? And I certainly don’t hold her action against her.

 

In some form of cosmic and literary sarcasm, as well as synchronicity, Heather appears to have died in no small amount of inner isolation (I can't help but think somehow), while her work was read by thousands. Heather's own roots placed her at a cross-roads. Just like Lee jumped horses in front of crowds, but confided in her personal isolation outside of the ring, and like Nina agreed to be the lone substitute daughter for a wealthy corporate sadist, Heather understood the dichotomy between inner and outer worlds all too well. Perhaps she understood so well, that she did lose track of the line that defines – lost any strength or will for yet another trial of reconciling the two.

As in the great Greek tragedies, fate never seems far away in Heather's novels, nor perhaps in her own life.

 

I understand fate, and I understand fear – there is no such thing as coincidence, only convergence. And I understand that, even though we might achieve and learn to understand fear, it will always be there somewhere. It is part of our human nature to fear what we do not understand – ourselves most of all. What we fear the most, might just prove to be our fate. Heather herself is proof of that – we fear her work because we have good reason to.

 

Life is difficult when you have never felt truly safe, when fear overrides and underruns everything you know. Emotional safety is prerequisite to any human being’s happiness, especially when we are young.

What happens when that safety, the stability it brings, is yanked away from under a young girl’s feet, or anyone’s feet for that matter, Heather’s work pinpoints more effectively than any other I’ve come across, and does it seemingly so without any effort at all. In fact, it is in the lack of reasoning in Heather’s prose, that reason and logic are quickly dismantled by their own inadequacies. What follows, is an unrelenting dismemberment of character – ultimately, of the soul.

I’m not a weathered reader, and I never knew her in person, but, more than anything, I feel Heather’s writing when I read it. I feel her, and her characters’, attempts at life both on paper and in the flesh. There is no other way to truly read her work, except to feel it with an empathy that is as uncompromising as her literature.

I believe Heather Lewis was what you would call ‘rare’, in every meaning of the word.

 

In conclusion, allow me to say, that I have known more women who have been abused in some way or fashion, than women who experienced a clean and happy childhood, and the observation itself is a frightening one to make. Nearly all of them have been abused by men. But in any which case, now matter how grave the abuse, dysfunction appears and a struggle remains.

Some of us survive, and some don’t – not even after putting up one hell of a fight.

 

To quote Allan Gurganus on Heather from his Terror, Eros and Animal postscript: “The girl was every inch an artist.” Me, I would have to agree.

 

For Heather, and all those who fear and fight,

Take notice.

 

 Copyright © Arion Wyckman - December 19, 2007

 

 

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