So if you follow any of my Facebook posts, you may have
noticed I got my writing mojo back this summer.
Some of that is just sheer force of will to get a completed, readable
draft by the time I turn 38 in August.
And then… some of it comes from the collision of real life events
fueling my inspiration.
It is part of that age old question, where does the writer
end and the fiction begin? Certainly, I
find myself writing better scenes now that I’ve known what it is to lose my
grandmother. And while there are things
these characters go through that I haven’t experienced personally (thank God),
I think things I have felt and grieved and survived make it possible to write
this story.
On the flip side, I find this story adds to how I feel and
grieve current events.
I have a character who goes to Mississippi in 1964. So when the Supreme Court decided a couple
weeks ago that the voting rights act wasn’t necessary to enforce any longer, I
thought of her. I thought of the real
life heroes who inspired me to take her on that journey… and I felt so
frustrated and defeated and… sad.
But that is, truthfully, a periphery to the main narrative(s)
of my novel. I found myself focusing
more on the romance of my two parallel love stories. That led me to one of those silly consequences
of writing, developing a crush on these fictitious personalities.
One of them is a young black man.
There is a bit of a mystery - a lot of a mystery – so I don’t want to say
too much. But I will say the news this
weekend made me think of him. Maybe
because there is something about the injustice of Trayvon’s murder. The
double standard for a black man standing his ground versus a man of paler
complexion. Or maybe there is something
in the photos of that young, still almost boy.
Something I’ve thought about as I write Tom. A bit of a cavalier foolishness, the
stupidity of hubris… but someone who just ends up in the wrong place at the
wrong time. Someone’s son. Grandson.
Brother. Beloved. Full of hope.
Not entirely aware of the danger it is just to be.
I suspect it is a piece of my white privilege that I can say
I imagine these emotions surrounding a fictitious person. But I think of my friends. I think of co-workers. I think of the students I see sing every fall
and winter. I think of the friendly
faces I see while getting my iced coffee in the morning. I think of their beloveds. Their sons.
I think of the trigger happy white men I know and live
amongst. And… sometimes… love, too. I created one of those in this novel,
too. Someone who makes my skin
crawl. Someone who, when I describe this
book, I say is more monstrous than any vampire I conjured from imagination in
my last novel. Because, this type of
monster is real. Because we let these
monsters walk amongst us. And get away
with murder.
I also think of my own fear.
My prejudices. My conclusions to
which I jump with my fictitious scheming.
What I think is justice. The
ideals that in the present day are an impossible fantasy. I like that I can create a balance to the
ecosystem of my pretend universe by the end of my story… but even that comes
with a price and echoes through the hearts and minds of generations.
I do think writing has helped to clarify focus in real life
for me. Sometimes it just helps me heal
a broken heart. Sometimes it makes sense
of a world that infuriates me. And
sometimes… sometimes, it lets me see what’s happening and really feel it.
But you know, this time around, I wish it was just something
I made up.
