Boy, has this year got off to quite a mixed bag of tricks. Here we are now, end of February already, and while I must confess, I'm no farther in writing my book than I was four months ago, I'm so much farther in so many things that will hopefully aid in my process to finish this novel. Truth be told, of course I haven't updated this blog since Christmas because I haven't accomplished anything I said I would accomplish. But I've actually accomplished quite a lot that I didn't say I would accomplish. And therein lies some of life's greatest surprises.
Firstly, I sat down and read my mom's memoir one night, I think it was a weekend night, while Chris was busying himself with either building a workbench or setting up his own photo studio in the basement (being the resourceful husband he is). The "book" was a fast and easy read, and though it is in need of much literary love, my mom has some really great stories wrapped up in that package, and I'm really eager to talk with her more about them and write out the scenes with more description and depth. I have mixed feelings on what I read. It helped me see my grandmother more as a human being, where I've regarded her as a saint my entire life. But it only tapped the tip of the iceberg that was her personality, and I'm now I'm filled with many questions and many holes that need to be filled.
The main issue with what Mom wrote, though, and revising it for the masses, which is still an idea that I don't think she's sold on, is the same main issue I've been having with my story and thus the main reason I haven't sat down to write any more of it lately. That problem is that there is no major conflict in our stories. Sure, someone is dying, and you would think that would be conflict enough, but the conflict has to reside in the protagonist. There has to be something for the heroines to overcome, to come to terms with, to learn, to grow from. And in the case of both my mother's story and mine, we are but simple loved ones who live through the experience, changing in the end, sure, but in small ways, nothing quite resembling a denouement. Mostly, we are just telling events as they happen and sometimes volunteering our emotions as we feel them, but that does not make a story... not a good one anyhow.
I thought that perhaps we could combine our stories together... tell how the mother dealt with her first experience with death and losing one close to her, and then I'd chime in with my story. But that would make a better eighth grade essay than it would a memoir, with its compare and contrast elements. There would still not be any real conflict, no mountain for us to climb.
And my writing club has been no assistance either, which I started frequenting again. It's funny how things haven't changed in the four months I've been absent. There's still the same old man writing magazine propositions, but who never brings the actual articles for us to critique. There's the same petite woman with a deep voice writing the most rudimentary remakes of children's fairy tales. There's the lovely slender housewife who totes copies of her already written (though still in much need of polishing) novel. And there's the fantastical lyricist who hypnotizes everyone with his smooth narrating voice and dancing words, but has no actual comments to hand out to anyone else. And of course, there's me, who receives the same critique every time: I have a great style and a unique voice, but my pieces lack any kind of conflict.
I'm starting to feel some conflict with my lack of conflict.
Then the other day, I had some conflict with the huge pile of snow in my driveway, which is nothing new. Shoveling out my driveway usually involves a lot of cursing, throwing of hats, and general huffing and puffing. But in all that anguish, the answer appeared to me.
I've posed the question more than once on this blog about whether this story that I'm writing is really about my grandfather or if it is about me. I always assumed it was about me, because I obviously couldn't put words in my grandpa's mouth (even less so now that he's dead). But it's not just about me. It's about my relationship with the man, or, more importantly, the lack of relationship that I had with him. I always felt close to my grandpa, though I had no good reason to. We never had any heart-to-heart conversations, I never asked him for advice. In the six months I lived in his house, I don't think I even learned how to cook a single thing, though he made us dinner every single night. We really never shared anything together, and yet this world darkened for me the day he left it. It was only at his funeral, when I had nothing left to lose, that I could actually tell him how I felt about him. Now if that doesn't sound like plot resolution, then I don't know what does.
Although, now this opens up a whole can of worms where my personal life is concerned. Intimate issues I have with forming relationships, being scared to be honest with my feelings, the regrets I face for not taking a more active part in the lives of my family members... I can already visualize the therapy sessions that are inevitable in my future.
It's not what I wanted originally. I wanted this memoir to be a tribute to my grandpa, to tell his story. I didn't want my life to be in the forefront. But what is a memoir if it's not about the person behind the pen? I'm really hoping that, in the end, it will still be all those things I wanted when I started, and maybe now it'll actually be a good story, too. Fingers crossed.
Another important bit of news has occurred in my life. I've been accepted into the Masters Program at my old alma mater. I always assumed I would get in, because I was such a good student during my Bachelors semesters, no matter if my GRE score was lousy or if I submitted a writing sample I wrote five years ago and didn't bother revising. I assumed I would get in, but I wasn't certain, and I did have a few episodes where my brain flashed forward to show me my floundering future as an utter failure (yay, alliterism!). But alas, I made it, and I feel the winds of change a-brewing in the Furner household. I've already been propositioned to write a biography on Sir Walter Scott and his relation to Orientalism, two subjects I know absolutely nothing about, which my dear cousin in Kentucky assures me is entirely normal for graduate school. It's a little strange being thrown back into the deep end so abruptly, and truth be told, I'm thoroughly terrified of this project, but I'm also excited and relieved and I feel like I'm back in the place where I belong. However, now this project takes away precious time from my own writing, and the deadline for it is, of course, July. I think one project will help fuel the other, though. The critical thinking and word juggling of one will only facilitate productivity of the other, or at least, so I'm hoping. Again, fingers crossed.
I think "fingers crossed" is the epitome of my emotions at this moment in time. I have a lot going for me, and I'm hoping to keep the motivation alive, to keep all the balls in the air, and I'm holding my breath that perhaps this is the start of something bigger and better for my life.
Fingers crossed.
