An Invisible, Infinite Life

Thoughts on The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue and our creative work

Hello, again!

Have you ever heard of Time Passage Awareness Disorder (TPAD)? It is a very real, not-at-all-made-up disorder for which there is no cure. I am afflicted. Symptoms include telling people things like, “…and I have a personal newsletter!” only to realize you haven’t sent said newsletter out to anyone since November 2019. Sigh. What can I say? I certainly won’t apologize because #2020, and I also won’t make any foolish promises about the frequency of issues now because #2021. But this particular issue has been languishing in my drafts folder for far too long, and today is the day to hit send.

Earlier this year, I had a perfect confluence of events. First of all, I’ve been participating in a local fellowship that allowed me to reflect on my sense of personal calling (which for me, of course, includes writing). At the same time, I began reading The Artists Way. As I worked my way through the reflection both required, I came to realize how little I trust my own writing voice when no one else has given me permission to say what I want to say.

I love submitting work to be published, and while I fear rejection, submissions have became an ironic safety net. If a submitted piece is to go out into the world, it will have first been approved of. Someone will have literally accepted it, labeling it “good” or at least “worth sharing.”

But what about when I am my own gatekeeper? That feels much scarier, and the craziness of the past year notwithstanding, I think it’s why I’ve hesitated to actually finish any newsletters.

That brings us to today. I’ve reached the final week of my fellowship, and participants were asked to consider our next right steps. Thanks for being here to read along as I take my first.

What’s this all about?

Great question. I can’t overstate how much I believe curiosity and mutual understanding is our path forward—here in a society very much in need of repair.

Here, I’ll follow my curiosity about creativity, perfectionism, community, books, and spirituality. In any given newsletter, you can expect to find book reviews and reflections, personal essays, and big questions. I am not really interested in merely curating a collection of links for you…but I’m sure I’ll include a link or two, because I’m only human.

Let’s get to it, shall we? Today, let’s talk about a book.

An Invisible, Infinite Life

Spoiler alert: This reflection includes (many, many) spoilers of V.E. Schwab’s novel The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue. I really enjoyed it, but part of the fun is not knowing how it’s going to turn out. If you think you might want to pick up the book, please feel free to scroll past it.

One of the things I’m enjoying most in 2021 is the Indianapolis Moms book club! A few writers from the Indianapolis Moms team are spearheading this, and we’re meeting online once a month to discuss a book together. Our first book of the year was as The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue, one I probably would not have picked up otherwise. It turned out to be surprising in the best way, and I think about it often.

The novel tells the story of a young woman, Addie, who was born in rural France in the 1600s. (Here come the spoilers y’all.) Desperate not to be forced into marriage, she makes a deal with a figure named Luc, who is not quite the devil or a demon, but something like darkness personified. Addie asks for freedom and Luc gives it to her, but not without a cost. In exchange for freedom, no one remembers Addie. As soon as she is out of sight, she is also out of mind…forever.

Until, that is, Henry. Addie meets Henry in New York City in 2013, and he is the first person in 400ish years who can actually remember her. Why? Because, we discover, Henry made his own deal with Luc just a year before. Henry’s deal means he is loved by everyone he meets—but not because of who he is. Instead, they see what they want. And while Addie lives forever, Henry is living under a quickly ticking clock.

When our book club met to talk about Addie LaRue, we discussed and debated whose curse was better. If you had to bear Addie’s curse or Henry’s, whose would you prefer? I chose Henry. To me, the saddest thing about Addie’s curse was not the loneliness or the aimlessness, but that she could not create. She can’t write or paint or even take a photo, because she can not leave a mark on the world in anyway; it would be proof of her existence. Luc could have let Addie create. He might have orchestrated things so her art lived in the world anonymously, everyone wondering who the artist was. But he could not or would not give her that.

It strikes me that to destroy someone’s ability to create—not their inherent creativity (because Addie’s creative drive abounds) but the means by which they can share that creativity with the world—is one of the primary ways we can harm the image of God in them.

As a Jesus-follower, I have faith that one day, all of creation will be redeemed. My faith is not about getting away to heaven one day, but about God coming to earth and inviting us to help transform everything. To that end, I’m confident any good, God-honoring work we do will have a place in the new creation. I don’t know how it will work, but it’s delightful to imagine. Will it be like the most incredible museum—one that is living and active and transforming? Will there be a library of art, literature, and recorded conversations? Will there be a microfilm archive of our random acts of kindness? Or will all the good be less tangible, but have somehow worked its way into humanity’s consciousness, transforming and shifting how we see and understand everything? Who can say?

For Addie, leaving a mark became her purpose. She invested so much time and energy into connecting with artists, writers, and musicians so that they would use her ideas and her image in what they created. They paint her portrait while she is in front of them, waking in the morning to assume they must have dreamt of the girl with seven freckles across her face. They wonder about the melody stuck in their heads, assuming the music came to them through a burst of divine inspiration. No one remembers her, but they unknowingly experience her impact.

And yet, as Addie discovers, it is not as fulfilling to be the muse as it is to be the artist. What would happen if we all thought of our legacies less in terms of what we accumulate, protect, or save and more in terms of what we create, impact, and give away? (I’m not talking about 401Ks.)

Many of the novel’s other characters (like Henry, Robbie, and Bea) also long to create something beautiful and lasting through their photography, performance, and art. Luc, however? We don’t see much creativity in him. Instead, Luc seeks to control and to consume. In the end, perhaps that is why Addie could not love Luc the way she loved Henry.

Ultimately, Addie gets her book written and story told. And why? Because of her relationship with Henry. All of Addie’s mark-making is possible only because of relationship.

How much more is this true for us, who can be both loved and lover, both artist and muse? What a gift. And what a gift to know that any generative, love-rooted work we do will live on.

A Good Word:

“It is simply not true…that ‘souls’ are the only eternal things or that human beings are all that last into eternity. To be sure, cultural goods without creators and cultivators would be inert and useless. But human beings, in God’s original intention and in their redemptive destination, cannot be separated from the cultural goods they create and cultivate at their best.” —Andy Crouch, Culture Making

Currently:

• Reading Dear White Peacemakers by Osheta Moore, currently available for pre-order. If that title grabs you, the book is probably for you. It’s a gift.

• Soaking up the art our church diocese has been sharing. During Asian Pacific American Heritage Month, they are highlighting the work of artist He Qi. In February, it was artist Laura James.

• Thinking a lot about what it means to be languishing, or dormant, or…?

• Turning into a dog person. I don’t even know who I am anymore.

A Benediction:

May springtime surprise you with her gifts. Though small and vulnerable, may a few seedlings astound you with their persistence and growth.

Grace and peace, until next time*,

Lindsey

*hopefully sooner than Spring 2022