I have a story.
Tonight I will flesh out a few more scenes after the which I can
consider the first draft complete. Of
course, that’s when the work really begins.
But… I’ve realized that when writing a book, having a complete story –
no matter how much is deleted or bulked up in later versions – is an important peak
on which to declare victory.
Especially since it took me fifteen years to climb this
mountain.
There were a few points over the last year when I wondered
if it was worth writing something I started so long ago. In a lot of ways, I have a different view of
the world than I did at age 23. I shook
off a lot of naiveté, changed priorities, and… I’d like to think gained some
humility even as I accomplished more.
I mean… at age 23 I was obsessed with war movies. I spent my days talking about weaponry to the
public and bitching about museum drama in all the other hours. I still wanted to be the star of every show. I had dreams of fame and wealth. I still believed success was going to be the
number of zeroes in my pay stub or an engagement ring. I was in love with Kenneth Branagh… okay,
maybe not everything has changed.
But a lot has.
Except my love for this story. Some of it has changed with
me. The root of it stays the same… which
is funny because I consider myself more jaded about love these days. And yet, it really is kind of a sappy love
story. Plus.
I realize, of course, as I weave together the different
chunks of manuscript from the years that I had to live to this point to make it
a better story. I better understand …
and grieve… the degeneration that comes with old age. I feel the sorrow of a major grief. I also understand curiosity a lot more.
Even just a year ago, I questioned the cliché of my frame story. A young-ish woman taking care of her dying
grandmother. How overtold is the story
that in seeing one life take a curtain call one discovers the value of her
own life? And maybe because a year ago I
hadn’t reflected much in that way, it did seem contrived… because that’s how I
wrote it.
But then I started sifting through old pictures. Some I was lucky enough to ask my grandmother
about firsthand. And then I found many
more that ignited a mystery of the story behind them.
A dashing silhouette of a WWI soldier that had the message “Thinking
of you,” scribbled on the back.
Two best friends caught in a spontaneous moment of joy.
A husband and wife igniting the life of a party.
I found myself writing these stories in my own mind. For some I had details to come up with an
idea. And then… questions… like who was
that best friend? How long did they know
one another? Who lived longer? Did they stay friends even after
marriage?
Or… who is the dog in so many of these pictures?
None of these questions informed my oldest narrator’s
history. Her story has remained
essentially unchanged throughout the fifteen years of my writing… just some
tweaking to the level of her romantic world view. But it did make me realize that these
questions are ones that may go through a woman’s mind as she looks death in the
eye and contemplates the meaning, the heartache, the reward, the love of a
life. And so my present day character,
Bekah, ended up getting a lot more muscle… and was much less a servant to the
story of the past.
There are other serendipities that have fueled me this
summer and last. The fact I spend many nights
in the house where I first conjured the idea.
Especially after summer evening walks with my dog around the neighbor’s
lake. The character in all three
storylines of this book is a great old house – whose aesthetic has changed as
my walks around Boston and Central Mass lead me to discover different
architectures I like. But the grounds are entirely based on my neighbors’
properties, which include a lake, a once abandoned (although somewhere in the
last decade it has been restored) tennis court, and two overgrown foundations
in the middle of the woods.
And lastly… maybe most importantly… or maybe incidentally…
current events. Race. Gay marriage.
The redeeming quality of our society is that there have been baby steps
and giant leaps of progress made… all while there have been retreats into a
past during which the more historic scenes of this book take place. The racial conflicts of this country have always
fascinated me… at least since I was twelve and able to comprehend
discrimination. I think my father has
something to do with that, as does my mother… as do the paths down which I have
chosen to lead my life. I’m less scared
of the subject now. Less intimidated to
insert my imagination into a character who is a different skin color. More willing to write the villainy that makes
it real.
I don’t have a title for this book yet. The one I had fifteen years ago is somewhat irrelevant
now. But I do have a skeleton. And a love story.
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