A World Starved Of Beauty

After much hard work writing, and even harder work promoting “Lucy”, I finally have a check I can hold, get a copy of, and frame.

I’m now Thea Ramsay, professional author.


How did I celebrate? Simple. I read more stories, hoping to fuel this imagination. Or rather, I listened to those old stories featured on old-time radio, or OTR, for short.


They have all kinds of programs on OTR. Comedy, Westerns, crime, thrillers, horror, you name it.

Don’t get me wrong. I love a good Inner Sanctum mystery. The corny ghoulish jokes seem to offset the scary stuff. And you can’t go wrong with a good X Minus 1 sci-fi adventure. Some of those sci-fi shows had some real imagination. I find sci-fi and weird tales rich imaginational nourishment.


The one thing I didn’t find, and never have found, is the wonder story, the beauty story.

I remember even way back when I was eight asking my mother about a movie she was watching.

“Are the aliens strange and beautiful?”

“No,” she replied. “Strange and terrible.”

Even one of the oTR programs promise “tales of the strange and terrifying”.

For weeks now, I’ve Googled everything I can think of: What genre is opposite to horror? Nothing. “Strange and lovely” netted me nothing.

“What genre focuses on love, joy, beauty?” The Google oracle had nothing for me.

Now my mom was into the strange and terrifying. She watched things like The Exorcist and The Burning Bed.

She got quite cross when I wouldn’t join her, preferring the world of fairies, angels, princes and princesses to her version of ‘reality’.

My poor mom lived in an abusive reality, and she didn’t want me to grow up surrounded by my lovely intangibles.

The same lovely intangibles Doris Walker of Miracle On Thirty-Fourth Street fame had so much contempt for. You can guess whose side I took. Mr. Gaily’s, of course. I never overlooked those lovely intangibles, and I guess I never will.

Is it because I’m born again? Because I have the light of Christ in me, courtesy of God, whom I worship?

Even before that, as I said, as a small child, I had no fascination with hell or its ways.

Now that I’ve grown up, I have even less fascination with it than I did as a child. I still won’t accept my mother’s reality. I still won’t watch The Exorcist or The Burning Bed.

Yet, in our films, books, and music, I see nothing but darkness.

Even those old OTR programs are more interested in the dark side. For every comedy show, there are dozens about murder.

I’ve never yet found romance in OTR.

There is no romance subgenre. Apparently, there was a series of romance, but it apparently didn’t last.


So, what’s a loveliness-hungry girl to do? Where can I find loveliness in the arts?

Since I’m blind, I can’t find it much in nature. The majesty of a night sky is not mine to explore.

Over twenty years of collecting and searching, I have a bunch of the happiest love songs I can find. I have collections of love songs (happy ones: no beating, no cheating, no leaving) on Spotify, though I have to pick through a lot of dross to find them.

I have some glorious collections of music boxes and bells, mostly Christmas music, but not all.

Of course, Christmas is, or used to be, a time when we put our darkness aside. Not any more. (Exhibit A: Christmas With the Cranks; Exhibit B: Satan Claus: Exhibit C: no modern pictures about the Christ child.)

Anyway, there are classic Christmas films, music, and books. Anyone remember the scratch ‘n’ sniff books? The Christmas ones were beautiful in a multi-sensory way. I read the Braille and smelled the fragrances of pine and candy cane.

There are the classic Broadway musicals of the Cinderella variety. (OK, I’ll count Shrek, too, because the music and the story is lovely, even though little ogres like nasty.)

John Keats was a poet of the Romantic era that swept through the British isles for all too brief a time.

And I suppose the 1960’s were a time of drug-induced romance when the baby boomers were in their mid-to-late teens, attending love-ins and Woodstock. They used hallucinogens to tap into beauty and euphoria.

The Woodstock concert was nothing but peace and music. Three days of it.

Compare that with Woodstock ’99. The drugs remained; the ideals were long gone. Instead of three days of peace and music, they had rapes and riots.


But I digress. Am I the only one wondering where in literature, music, and movies, can I find unmitigated beauty and euphoria and love?

Even today’s romances are hitting up the dark for material. I’ve read a few modern romances, and I’m darned if I know what the heroine sees in the hero. A lot of them are abusive in some way.

No thanks. Yes, I’m looking for utopia.

As I grow older, I hear the words of Jesus ringing in my head. “Blessed are you who hunger and thirst for righteousness: you shall be filled.”

Maybe one day, when Christ reigns on this earth, there’ll be a cornucopia of beauty, love and euphoria. First in the human heart, then in our stories.

Murder will be replaced with love. The love story will replace the ghost story. Maybe instead of a genre called horror, we’ll wake up to a genre called wonder, with subgenres like beauty, euphoric or ecstatic, and romance that is real romance.

I’m so hungry and thirsty for that day, my mouth is parched. Or I should rather say, my soul is parched.

How about you?

By the way, if you know of a genre of fiction that deals with what I’m looking for, tell me about it in the comments section, okay?

I’ll give you a free copy of any of my published works: either the novel, “Lucy”, or “A Very Special House,” which is shorter, or my humorous short story “Poo In The Face: A Murray B. Dolphin Adventure”.

Don’t forget to commit a random act of kindness, a senseless act of beauty, do an unspeakably loving thing to our planet, or someone you love.

Some may call themselves terrorists; we are beautyists.

Ooh. I’m hearing my saviour again. “Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good”.

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