Two weekends ago I tried to make Oatmeal Crisps. I was sitting at this very laptop feeling as
though I was wasting my Sunday morning, not writing, neglecting my food blog…
and decided to see what recipe in my grandmother’s box I could tackle with the
supply of my cupboards. It seemed relatively
easy… and I have a plentiful supply of oatmeal.
I could easily accomplish that… and something else. Only, I was overconfident, not very mindful
of the delicacy of instructions… and ended up with burnt sugar all over the
bottom of my oven and cookies that were more like toffee than, well, cookies.
I believe I cried.
And got all worked up about feeling stupid and foolish… and all that
silliness that a certain time of the moon inspires in one’s inner
monologue.
Then I decided I could use that – the burnt sugar AND the
whimpering self-pity - to start a scene in my current manuscript. So… what ended up a failed blog post was a
good way to show the inner conflict of one of my narrators.
I made art imitate life.
Yesterday I felt that same urge to whimper without the
excuse of the moon. Just an overall
sense of foolishness for not getting something I wanted, something I stretched
my hand out to and for which I was kindly, respectfully… rejected.
I was home for a snow day… which may or may not have been a
blessing. On the one hand I was free to
cry my eyes red without worrying who would walk in the door of the office and
ask stupid questions. On the other hand I
was free and made my eyes and nose very red because I had no reason to not
cry. And I felt very stupid and alone
and pooh, glum.
I’m not one to spend hours bemoaning her single status. Indeed, I’ve taken a rather satisfied
attitude in my Jane Austen marital identity.
Maybe I don’t have a very romantic real life, but I do have powers of
observation that will help me construct a compelling love story on the page. And it’s a reality into which I have settled
rather nicely. Except on days like
yesterday.
And crazy author that I am, not having set my eye on anyone
in particular, I found myself saying… I wish I had a Ben right now.
That’s when I stopped my whimper and curled up a bemused
smile at myself.
I wrote An Ever Fixed Mark in a fury at the end of 2008 and
leading up to my birthday in 2009.
Lizzie was a character I needed to get out of myself… and yet one with
whom I don’t completely identify. She
has all my pathos on steroids…so when people say they read it and see me in
her, I’m a little hooray and a lot… oh gee… great. Then they ask about Ben. Who is he?
Code for who do you secretly love forever? In one of these discussions, I realized… of
all the characters in that novel… Ben is me.
Or, maybe, rather… what I want to be.
Cool as a cucumber. Calm under
pressure. More interested in saving the
world than self interest. Flawed enough
to still be human. But patient,
intelligent… and loyal.
So… in this moment of hysteria, when I wished I had a Ben
with me… wasn’t I wishing to have those idealized qualities in myself? The patience, the determination… and the
motivation beyond self.
This is one of those posts that I could very well read a
year from now and have a completely different perspective. It’s just… the world in which I think some
writers live. Our characters are our
voices, our fantasies… and in a way that only makes sense to me… my self.
I have a Ben-like character in my current manuscript. Only she is not as good. Well, she isn’t a vampire. She’s a bit crazy. But brave.
A survivor. Enormously
flawed. And completely devoted to
someone she loves. To her sense of
righting a wrong. And she likes roses.
I think my coffee table requires a vase of roses… a little
life to imitate my art.
