I got on my writers' group's web site last night to RSVP for the next meeting and quickly realized that I had missed this week's gathering. It hadn't even occurred to me that two weeks had gone by already. It definitely didn't feel like a fortnight, that's for sure. I guess it didn't matter all too much. I hadn't done any new writing, only had gone back and tried to work on all the critiques of last meeting, which did end up adding on two more pages to the "novel." So now I have six pages. My grandfather has been dead nearly a whole two months and I have six pages to show for it and only 10 months to go.
I suppose it's only natural that I've been a little flaky the past two weeks with the whole house hunting process. We did find a house already and have had our offer accepted, which is super speedy from what I've heard when it comes to buying a house. In a way, I'm glad that it only took two weeks, because it's such a demanding and chaotic process. So while the idea of paying both a mortgage and a rent payment for two months because we can't break our lease scares the bejeebus out of me, at least I have little excuse not to write now.
And you would think I would be full of words after last weekend, but that doesn't seem to be the case. Chris left town with his father for some male bonding time and I stayed at my Mom's, talking about Grandpa, going to Grandpa's house, visiting his grave. My senior year of high school, I lived with my grandfather for five months and I know I thought it was terrible at the time, but I can't remember why. So I even dug out the journal I kept senior year and stayed up late at night reading it in hopes of figuring some of that out. Unfortunately, I was involved in a very ridiculous drama-filled high school romance at the time and the majority of the journal was riddled with "love is grand" or "boys suck," with a few "I hate living in Grandpa's house" thrown in there, and that was about it. So no help from that.
I'm not really sure I got the closure I was looking for being in Grandpa's house. I think it made the wound more open, to be honest. I was hoping that I would get to explore the house on my own, to have some quiet time with my memories, but my godparents were there when we showed up, so no luck. I'm not sure it would have made a difference. I'm not even sure what I was really looking for. I felt like I was the ghost in the house, not Grandpa, haunting every room, lingering for no reason in places, trying to take it all in before having to give it all up. I spent most of my time hovering near the coffee cup tree, touching a coffee cup that Grandpa didn't even use, but I felt that coffee cup alone summed up all my memories of that house. I traced the black lines on the dirty-colored porcelain with my fingers, outlining the design of vibrant oranges and their leaves, thinking about how my father used to drink his morning coffee on Sundays from those mugs, how Aunt Beth would take the pot to the living room, first filling up Uncle Jim's mug and then Grandpa's even though no one asked her to. Mom asked me more than once if I wanted to take the mug home or if I wanted the entire mug tree, but I kept saying no. What would I do with a mug tree? What would I do with these hideous '60s mugs? Part of me wanted to take everything home, and part of me wanted everything to stay exactly as it was.
The house wasn't anything like it should have been. So many things have been cleared out and what was still left was stacked against walls on top of each other, often in boxes. It didn't really matter. It was still Grandpa's house to me. I could still see it how it should have been. My cousins are moving into it, changing things around and painting, but I think no matter how they decorate or renovate, I'll still be able to walk into that house and see things just as they always were, rewind the clock and see everything in its proper place, my grandfather rocking happily in his plush mauve lazyboy in the living room.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Que sais-je?
I was attempting to hold a book hostage from the library this week. Apparently, you can only renew books once, which I had already done, and so it was demanding to have its book back. I called the library and said, "Hell, no, I'm keeping the book and you have to pay me a quarter for every day I don't return it." Oh, wait. They charged me a quarter for every day I didn't return it. I guess that whole hostage situation didn't turn out too great for me. So eventually I gave in and returned it, and with the money I owed the library, I went to Barnes and Noble and bought my own copy.
It's a really insightful how-to-write book by Bill Roorbach called "Writing Life Stories." If you're trying to write a memoir or an essay or what have you, I think it's an excellent source. Even if you already know all the tips he gives you (which I definitely didn't), it's still overflowing with inspiration, and one can never have too much of that.
One particular such inspiring passage talked about this writer from the 1500s named Michel de Montaigne, whom I had never heard of before. Apparently this writer wore a gold medallion around his neck that had the inscription "Que sais-je," which is French for "What do I know?" It's a rather interesting question for writers, definitely, but for anyone really. I liked it so much, that in true Jenny fashion, my first instinct was to get it tattooed somewhere. But my husband would talk me out of that in the end anyhow, as he tends to do every time I want to tattoo something new on myself, which happens more often than you might think.
So what do I know? Generally, I feel like I don't know much. I don't know much about mortgages (but I'm learning with our ongoing house hunt). I don't know much about politics (except what my husband's opinions are). I don't know much about anything, really, or so it seems. But sometimes I think not knowing is what makes a writer great. It can give a connection to the reader and the writer and let them figure out things they don't know together.
However, Roorbach insists that people know a lot more than they think they do. He said Montaigne "was an expert on himself (as we all are, or should be) and so reported confidently, as an authority... Look inside yourself. What do you know? The answer is that you know a lot, about myriad subjects."
It makes perfect sense. If it's anything we should all be experts on, it's ourselves. Which works out for me, trying to write a memoir and all. But isn't it such hard concept to keep in mind from day to day? I know I often feel like I don't know more than I do know, but I think most people feel that way.
Where the book is involved, though, I definitely know a lot about myself and my relationship with my family and my family, in general. Which I'm sure will come in handy. What the writing group pointed out to me this week, though, is that I don't do a very good job of sharing that knowledge with the rest of the world. Turns out that since my family's habits and personalities are so second-nature to me, I don't explain them for the rest of the world to understand. For example, I wrote about how my Aunt Louise smiles and people thought it was weird she was smiling at a funeral. But Aunt Louise is always smiling, no matter the circumstances. I don't think I've ever not seen her smile. Any other person wouldn't know that, though. They would just think she was being insensitive in such a serious atmosphere. So that's something I have to go back and work on.
Also, I'm having another problem with tone in my story. I don't want it to be all ho-hum because it is taking place at a funeral, but I think I've overcompensated and made the mood too light. Some people thought it was clever that I was making light of such a gloomy situation, but other people thought it made me an unreliable narrator. Which is a funny concept, being an unreliable narrator in a story about you written by you.
And then there's also the problem with dialogue. Someone suggested I have more of it. I've never been good with dialogue. I feel it's boring. But I guess I had better give it a whirl anyhow.
So many times, especially this week when our schedule has been so unpredictable and choatic, I feel like I don't know anything about writing. And then I go to writing club and I feel like maybe I know a little about writing, but definitely not much. I never feel discouraged, though, which is a good thing, I guess. I asked the group flat-out if they thought my piece was boring, and they all said encouraging things without really answering the question. I didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Then I got home and I was reading through my comments, and one person wrote down, "I didn't think it was boring." So thank you, fellow writer, whoever you are (I couldn't tell by the handwriting). It's nice to know I'm not boring.
So off the top of my head, here's what I know right now:
1. John, the amazing writer who rhymes at Writing Club has bluer eyes than I do, like freaky ridiculously blue eyes. So even though his face looks tired, his eyes are always awake.
2. House hunting absolutely consumes your entire life to the point where it gets obsessive, always checking online to see if a new house has popped up or if perhaps you overlooked one.
3. I cannot have the TV on and expect to get anything productive done, unless I'm in the kitchen, but then I can barely hear the TV anyhow, so it's really not the same thing at all.
Unfortunately, none of those things will help me with my book at all.
It's a really insightful how-to-write book by Bill Roorbach called "Writing Life Stories." If you're trying to write a memoir or an essay or what have you, I think it's an excellent source. Even if you already know all the tips he gives you (which I definitely didn't), it's still overflowing with inspiration, and one can never have too much of that.
One particular such inspiring passage talked about this writer from the 1500s named Michel de Montaigne, whom I had never heard of before. Apparently this writer wore a gold medallion around his neck that had the inscription "Que sais-je," which is French for "What do I know?" It's a rather interesting question for writers, definitely, but for anyone really. I liked it so much, that in true Jenny fashion, my first instinct was to get it tattooed somewhere. But my husband would talk me out of that in the end anyhow, as he tends to do every time I want to tattoo something new on myself, which happens more often than you might think.
So what do I know? Generally, I feel like I don't know much. I don't know much about mortgages (but I'm learning with our ongoing house hunt). I don't know much about politics (except what my husband's opinions are). I don't know much about anything, really, or so it seems. But sometimes I think not knowing is what makes a writer great. It can give a connection to the reader and the writer and let them figure out things they don't know together.
However, Roorbach insists that people know a lot more than they think they do. He said Montaigne "was an expert on himself (as we all are, or should be) and so reported confidently, as an authority... Look inside yourself. What do you know? The answer is that you know a lot, about myriad subjects."
It makes perfect sense. If it's anything we should all be experts on, it's ourselves. Which works out for me, trying to write a memoir and all. But isn't it such hard concept to keep in mind from day to day? I know I often feel like I don't know more than I do know, but I think most people feel that way.
Where the book is involved, though, I definitely know a lot about myself and my relationship with my family and my family, in general. Which I'm sure will come in handy. What the writing group pointed out to me this week, though, is that I don't do a very good job of sharing that knowledge with the rest of the world. Turns out that since my family's habits and personalities are so second-nature to me, I don't explain them for the rest of the world to understand. For example, I wrote about how my Aunt Louise smiles and people thought it was weird she was smiling at a funeral. But Aunt Louise is always smiling, no matter the circumstances. I don't think I've ever not seen her smile. Any other person wouldn't know that, though. They would just think she was being insensitive in such a serious atmosphere. So that's something I have to go back and work on.
Also, I'm having another problem with tone in my story. I don't want it to be all ho-hum because it is taking place at a funeral, but I think I've overcompensated and made the mood too light. Some people thought it was clever that I was making light of such a gloomy situation, but other people thought it made me an unreliable narrator. Which is a funny concept, being an unreliable narrator in a story about you written by you.
And then there's also the problem with dialogue. Someone suggested I have more of it. I've never been good with dialogue. I feel it's boring. But I guess I had better give it a whirl anyhow.
So many times, especially this week when our schedule has been so unpredictable and choatic, I feel like I don't know anything about writing. And then I go to writing club and I feel like maybe I know a little about writing, but definitely not much. I never feel discouraged, though, which is a good thing, I guess. I asked the group flat-out if they thought my piece was boring, and they all said encouraging things without really answering the question. I didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Then I got home and I was reading through my comments, and one person wrote down, "I didn't think it was boring." So thank you, fellow writer, whoever you are (I couldn't tell by the handwriting). It's nice to know I'm not boring.
So off the top of my head, here's what I know right now:
1. John, the amazing writer who rhymes at Writing Club has bluer eyes than I do, like freaky ridiculously blue eyes. So even though his face looks tired, his eyes are always awake.
2. House hunting absolutely consumes your entire life to the point where it gets obsessive, always checking online to see if a new house has popped up or if perhaps you overlooked one.
3. I cannot have the TV on and expect to get anything productive done, unless I'm in the kitchen, but then I can barely hear the TV anyhow, so it's really not the same thing at all.
Unfortunately, none of those things will help me with my book at all.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Julie, Julia and Jenny.
I have a habit, and I think I probably share it with many women in this world, that, come Sunday night, I make all sorts of resolutions about how I'm going to change my life around. Like Monday is an automatic fresh start, clean slate, even if I ate nothing but burgers and hot dogs and sat on the couch watching "Dirty Jobs" all weekend. All is forgotten come Monday and life starts over.
Well, when I wrote my last entry, I had decided that I was going to write out a whole section of the book this week, at least get a rough draft on the paper. I'm glad I didn't write that into my post, because wouldn't you know it, I didn't do it. In fact, I barely wrote at all this week. And I ate fast food every day and only went to the gym once. I did floss twice this week, which is a new record. Doesn't really seem like that should be pat-on-the-back worthy, though, considering I should floss every day, as my husband lovingly reminds me as he picks through his own teeth.
I did have one goal on Monday that I actually did accomplish this week, and that was finish reading "Julie & Julia" by Julie Powell. See, when I had originally thought about writing this book, I thought it would center around my struggle to recreate some of my grandfather's famous family recipes (I've since abandoned that premise because I've found way too many other things I want to write about, but I will still probably find a way to incorporate that idea into the book). My main connections to my grandfather are his house and his cooking. I'm the one he made the applesauce for, because he knew, come Sunday morning, I would be asking for it. And all of my cousins knew which of Grandpa's cupboards to go to to find freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. So Grandpa's food was always a big part of my life and a big part of my memory.
But to write a book about cooking? I had no idea where to start. So my first order of business was to find a role model of sorts, and what better place to start than the recently world-renowned phenomenon that is "Julie & Julia." Well, I had made the mistake of seeing the movie first, long before I had ever set it in my mind to write a book. And I was in love with the movie. I loved the chronological juxtaposition of the their lives--really everything about the way the story was told. And the Julie Powell in the movie was so likeable. I wanted to be her friend and go to her dinner parties.
Unfortunately, the things I loved about the movie were nonexistent in the book. But then I suppose my expectations were entirely unreasonable. But what expectation I didn't think was unreasonable was that she be able to write well. And in that aspect of the book, I thought she completely failed. I HATED her writing style. I felt like she was constantly breaking all the rules I had been reading about in my how-to-write books. And not just because she was a rebel. Just because she didn't know any better. It gave me a glimmer of hope for my work, though. If SHE can get published, hell, so can I.
She did have some interesting insight into the blogging world, which I will quote from her novel now because it was basically the only passage I liked in the entire book. And pardon the cursing in advance... she has a really dirty mouth.
"Today when we blog about our weight-loss problems and our knitting and our opinion of the president's IQ level, we do it on the blithe assumption that someone gives a shit... Nowadays, anyone with a crap laptop and Internet access can sound their barbaric yawp, whatever it may be. But the surprise is that for every person who's got something to say, it seems there are at least a few people who are interested. Some of them aren't even related."
I give her mad bonus points for using "yawp," mostly because I believe she learned that word, as I did, from the movie "Dead Poet's Society" and not from reading Walt Whitman. And for the record, I have a desktop computer, though now that I am getting friendly with my kitchen table, I'd settle for a crap laptop instead. And half of my comments thus far have been from relatives, but that means half are not. Then again, there's only been 4 comments total so that's not saying much.
As torturous as I felt this book was to read, I figured I had to finish it anyway because if I was going to talk badly about it for the whole world to see, I should at least have read it cover to cover. And truth be told, I'm glad I did, because the last five pages hold more insight than the 302 that precede them. And while she was writing about Julia Child's death, it felt as if she was writing my novel for me.
She writes, "I have no claim over the woman at all, unless it's the claim one who has nearly drowned has over the person who pulled her out of the sea... When you don't believe in heaven, death is about as 'The End' as you can get... I believe that her body's buried... and the brain and heart and experience that made that body Julia have been extinguished. All that's left of that is what resides still in our memories. But that's a kind of afterlife, too, isn't it?"
So while I got a few poignant thoughts out of Ms. Powell, in the end, it turns out that reading that novel was, in general, a waste of my time. Where she was writing a book about writing a blog, I am writing a blog about writing a book. And it just goes to show that I need to spend more time writing and less time reading. So this Sunday night (my in-laws are coming this weekend, so it can't be any earlier... besides weekends are free zones, remember?), I'll make another resolution to write write write my heart out and hopefully get some pages done. And to make matters worse, my husband and I are going to start looking for a house, which only means my already hectic life is about to get even more crazy and sporadic, so I have to take time for writing now and get it into my schedule so when life throws me curveballs, I'll be able to dodge them.
Also, I've been thinking maybe I should also be trying to find magazines that take submissions of articles, get used to writing things on certain topics and deadlines and sending them out. "Creative Nonfiction" magazine is taking articles about food (could they pick a more broad topic?!) until September, so I'm trying to think about something to write for that. I figure it'll only prepare me more for the toils that lay ahead. If anyone knows of any other outlets I could write for, send 'em my way. Please and thank you.
Well, when I wrote my last entry, I had decided that I was going to write out a whole section of the book this week, at least get a rough draft on the paper. I'm glad I didn't write that into my post, because wouldn't you know it, I didn't do it. In fact, I barely wrote at all this week. And I ate fast food every day and only went to the gym once. I did floss twice this week, which is a new record. Doesn't really seem like that should be pat-on-the-back worthy, though, considering I should floss every day, as my husband lovingly reminds me as he picks through his own teeth.
I did have one goal on Monday that I actually did accomplish this week, and that was finish reading "Julie & Julia" by Julie Powell. See, when I had originally thought about writing this book, I thought it would center around my struggle to recreate some of my grandfather's famous family recipes (I've since abandoned that premise because I've found way too many other things I want to write about, but I will still probably find a way to incorporate that idea into the book). My main connections to my grandfather are his house and his cooking. I'm the one he made the applesauce for, because he knew, come Sunday morning, I would be asking for it. And all of my cousins knew which of Grandpa's cupboards to go to to find freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. So Grandpa's food was always a big part of my life and a big part of my memory.
But to write a book about cooking? I had no idea where to start. So my first order of business was to find a role model of sorts, and what better place to start than the recently world-renowned phenomenon that is "Julie & Julia." Well, I had made the mistake of seeing the movie first, long before I had ever set it in my mind to write a book. And I was in love with the movie. I loved the chronological juxtaposition of the their lives--really everything about the way the story was told. And the Julie Powell in the movie was so likeable. I wanted to be her friend and go to her dinner parties.
Unfortunately, the things I loved about the movie were nonexistent in the book. But then I suppose my expectations were entirely unreasonable. But what expectation I didn't think was unreasonable was that she be able to write well. And in that aspect of the book, I thought she completely failed. I HATED her writing style. I felt like she was constantly breaking all the rules I had been reading about in my how-to-write books. And not just because she was a rebel. Just because she didn't know any better. It gave me a glimmer of hope for my work, though. If SHE can get published, hell, so can I.
She did have some interesting insight into the blogging world, which I will quote from her novel now because it was basically the only passage I liked in the entire book. And pardon the cursing in advance... she has a really dirty mouth.
"Today when we blog about our weight-loss problems and our knitting and our opinion of the president's IQ level, we do it on the blithe assumption that someone gives a shit... Nowadays, anyone with a crap laptop and Internet access can sound their barbaric yawp, whatever it may be. But the surprise is that for every person who's got something to say, it seems there are at least a few people who are interested. Some of them aren't even related."
I give her mad bonus points for using "yawp," mostly because I believe she learned that word, as I did, from the movie "Dead Poet's Society" and not from reading Walt Whitman. And for the record, I have a desktop computer, though now that I am getting friendly with my kitchen table, I'd settle for a crap laptop instead. And half of my comments thus far have been from relatives, but that means half are not. Then again, there's only been 4 comments total so that's not saying much.
As torturous as I felt this book was to read, I figured I had to finish it anyway because if I was going to talk badly about it for the whole world to see, I should at least have read it cover to cover. And truth be told, I'm glad I did, because the last five pages hold more insight than the 302 that precede them. And while she was writing about Julia Child's death, it felt as if she was writing my novel for me.
She writes, "I have no claim over the woman at all, unless it's the claim one who has nearly drowned has over the person who pulled her out of the sea... When you don't believe in heaven, death is about as 'The End' as you can get... I believe that her body's buried... and the brain and heart and experience that made that body Julia have been extinguished. All that's left of that is what resides still in our memories. But that's a kind of afterlife, too, isn't it?"
So while I got a few poignant thoughts out of Ms. Powell, in the end, it turns out that reading that novel was, in general, a waste of my time. Where she was writing a book about writing a blog, I am writing a blog about writing a book. And it just goes to show that I need to spend more time writing and less time reading. So this Sunday night (my in-laws are coming this weekend, so it can't be any earlier... besides weekends are free zones, remember?), I'll make another resolution to write write write my heart out and hopefully get some pages done. And to make matters worse, my husband and I are going to start looking for a house, which only means my already hectic life is about to get even more crazy and sporadic, so I have to take time for writing now and get it into my schedule so when life throws me curveballs, I'll be able to dodge them.
Also, I've been thinking maybe I should also be trying to find magazines that take submissions of articles, get used to writing things on certain topics and deadlines and sending them out. "Creative Nonfiction" magazine is taking articles about food (could they pick a more broad topic?!) until September, so I'm trying to think about something to write for that. I figure it'll only prepare me more for the toils that lay ahead. If anyone knows of any other outlets I could write for, send 'em my way. Please and thank you.
Monday, August 2, 2010
The gloomy balloon that rolls on the floor after a bad party.
I've been working on this book for two weeks now. I've written a lot in the meantime, but as far as the actual book goes, I have exactly one page written, which I workshopped all last night and still am not happy with. My mom asked if I was following any sort of outline or time line, and as of yet, I'm not. It's hard to come up with an outline since I'm still not entirely sure what all I want the book to contain. I figured I'd just write like a banshee for a few weeks and see what resulted. But if I've only written a page in two weeks, I think it's time to find some kind of schedule to stick to.
I've come across a few obstacles so far with this writing business. Firstly is my husband. I'm sure he doesn't do it on purpose, but he is great company and a fabulous companion. So during weekday evenings when we usually watch "The Office" or "Dog the Bounty Hunter" reruns and talk and laugh and cuddle together on the couch, I am now armed with pen and paper at the kitchen table or glued to the computer. Choosing writing over TV time with the man I love is definitely a hard sacrifice to make. It's as John from the writing group said, writing is a lonely business. It's sitting at the table by myself all evening long with only my thoughts to keep me company.
If I have to be alone anywhere, though, it's nice that it's the kitchen table. I find it's my favorite place to work. It's a nice solid surface for scribbling in my composition book. I just grab myself a glass of iced tea from the kitchen and get to work. My table is open to the living room, and there are many windows that look out to the all the trees that surround our apartment. And I can soften the dining room light with the dimmer switch that Chris and I installed when we first moved in (which was a task and a half, but that's another blog). It's a very cozy feeling.
Kitchen tables are made for important memories, I think. It's where meals are served, daily conversation is had, Easter eggs are colored, toothpick bridges are built. My mom spends a lot of time at the kitchen table paying bills and working on projects. It's always the place to find her in the evenings. In both the house of my childhood and in her current house, you can see the kitchen table from the door. She always has the front door open when the weather allows it and oftentimes, as you walk up the sidewalk, you can see her sitting here working, unaware of her approaching visitor. It's a rather comforting image for me, which is probably why I find the kitchen table such an encouraging workspace.
The kitchen table can only hold its trance over me for a certain amount of time, however. Because my topic of choice is my grandfather, who is newly deceased, another obstacle of the writing process is my own emotion. After about an hour, I find myself getting caught up in all the memories, and writing about it becomes unbearable. In a way, it's keeping the wound fresh. Everything about this experience is emotional, it seems. For example, the last two weekends, I've juggled back and forth about whether or not I should make a trip home to gather some of Grandpa's things and recipes for inspiration, but mostly just to walk around his house again before anything in it was changed. My cousin and his wife are considering moving into his house, and it may be sooner or later, so I was determined to get home again before that happened.
My husband, the voice of reason, tried to help me understand how unnecessary that was, reminding me of how far away home really is. It's not like I can just "run home." It's a two and a half hour drive, so even if I were to stay only a few hours once I got there, it would consume the entire day, most of it spent staring out of the car window at the same old boring farmland that spans from one side of the state to the other. It would be a large waste of gas (an expensive waste, too) for what? The house will still be there next month. "Nothing will be different," he assured me.
"Everything will be different!" I exclaimed. His things will be moved. His smell will be gone. His spirit will have wilted and it will just be another house. I needed to touch the furniture, the counters, I needed to climb the stairs and stand in that bedroom that I called mine at one time. I needed to have that last moment with him in his house, my last chance to experience his presence, to feel his comfort. It was an encounter I craved, not only for the book's sake, but for my sake.
The furniture has been moved already, most of it removed. And my aunts and uncles have organized what remains, arranging things in boxes or taking some things home with them. I'm hoping none of that will matter when I finally get my chance to go inside.
When my grandmother died, we would pay to have Mass in her honor a few times a year. It would always be a Saturday evening Mass. My grandpa, my cousin, and I would take up the gifts during the collection. We would all go out to the cemetery after Mass and Father would say a few words, and we'd all let go of balloons, sending them up into heaven for her to enjoy.
In my current book-about-how-to-write-books, I read a blurb written by a student in some writing class, a name that was changed to protect anonymity, called, "On Grief" that went like this:
"Time heals nothing. Those that are gone, stay gone. Your heart is like a balloon with it, a gloomy balloon. The kind that rolls on the floor after bad parties. Swollen and dejected. Might explode at any minute... In grief, the air around us is filled with the heaviness of loss and our chest is filled like a rising balloon. A sinking balloon. Our chest is filled too full with some gas heavier than air."
I love that image of the balloon rolling on the floor after a bad party. Is there anything so sad as deflating balloons? I don't think so.
I've come across a few obstacles so far with this writing business. Firstly is my husband. I'm sure he doesn't do it on purpose, but he is great company and a fabulous companion. So during weekday evenings when we usually watch "The Office" or "Dog the Bounty Hunter" reruns and talk and laugh and cuddle together on the couch, I am now armed with pen and paper at the kitchen table or glued to the computer. Choosing writing over TV time with the man I love is definitely a hard sacrifice to make. It's as John from the writing group said, writing is a lonely business. It's sitting at the table by myself all evening long with only my thoughts to keep me company.
If I have to be alone anywhere, though, it's nice that it's the kitchen table. I find it's my favorite place to work. It's a nice solid surface for scribbling in my composition book. I just grab myself a glass of iced tea from the kitchen and get to work. My table is open to the living room, and there are many windows that look out to the all the trees that surround our apartment. And I can soften the dining room light with the dimmer switch that Chris and I installed when we first moved in (which was a task and a half, but that's another blog). It's a very cozy feeling.
Kitchen tables are made for important memories, I think. It's where meals are served, daily conversation is had, Easter eggs are colored, toothpick bridges are built. My mom spends a lot of time at the kitchen table paying bills and working on projects. It's always the place to find her in the evenings. In both the house of my childhood and in her current house, you can see the kitchen table from the door. She always has the front door open when the weather allows it and oftentimes, as you walk up the sidewalk, you can see her sitting here working, unaware of her approaching visitor. It's a rather comforting image for me, which is probably why I find the kitchen table such an encouraging workspace.
The kitchen table can only hold its trance over me for a certain amount of time, however. Because my topic of choice is my grandfather, who is newly deceased, another obstacle of the writing process is my own emotion. After about an hour, I find myself getting caught up in all the memories, and writing about it becomes unbearable. In a way, it's keeping the wound fresh. Everything about this experience is emotional, it seems. For example, the last two weekends, I've juggled back and forth about whether or not I should make a trip home to gather some of Grandpa's things and recipes for inspiration, but mostly just to walk around his house again before anything in it was changed. My cousin and his wife are considering moving into his house, and it may be sooner or later, so I was determined to get home again before that happened.
My husband, the voice of reason, tried to help me understand how unnecessary that was, reminding me of how far away home really is. It's not like I can just "run home." It's a two and a half hour drive, so even if I were to stay only a few hours once I got there, it would consume the entire day, most of it spent staring out of the car window at the same old boring farmland that spans from one side of the state to the other. It would be a large waste of gas (an expensive waste, too) for what? The house will still be there next month. "Nothing will be different," he assured me.
"Everything will be different!" I exclaimed. His things will be moved. His smell will be gone. His spirit will have wilted and it will just be another house. I needed to touch the furniture, the counters, I needed to climb the stairs and stand in that bedroom that I called mine at one time. I needed to have that last moment with him in his house, my last chance to experience his presence, to feel his comfort. It was an encounter I craved, not only for the book's sake, but for my sake.
The furniture has been moved already, most of it removed. And my aunts and uncles have organized what remains, arranging things in boxes or taking some things home with them. I'm hoping none of that will matter when I finally get my chance to go inside.
When my grandmother died, we would pay to have Mass in her honor a few times a year. It would always be a Saturday evening Mass. My grandpa, my cousin, and I would take up the gifts during the collection. We would all go out to the cemetery after Mass and Father would say a few words, and we'd all let go of balloons, sending them up into heaven for her to enjoy.
In my current book-about-how-to-write-books, I read a blurb written by a student in some writing class, a name that was changed to protect anonymity, called, "On Grief" that went like this:
"Time heals nothing. Those that are gone, stay gone. Your heart is like a balloon with it, a gloomy balloon. The kind that rolls on the floor after bad parties. Swollen and dejected. Might explode at any minute... In grief, the air around us is filled with the heaviness of loss and our chest is filled like a rising balloon. A sinking balloon. Our chest is filled too full with some gas heavier than air."
I love that image of the balloon rolling on the floor after a bad party. Is there anything so sad as deflating balloons? I don't think so.
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