Something’s Coming
I had a lot to say last week on being jealous of Joyce Carol Oates, particularly her 24/7 idea factory. I picture the third shift churning scenes and plots out in her brain as she sleeps, few breaks for the hardworking neurons on the assembly line. She awakes to a fresh batch, maybe boxes some extras for charity, and still has enough left for a lifetime of novels.
I rarely read fiction, but this week I am reading Oates’ We Were the Mulvaneys. I am usually drawn to the flat truthfulness of personal essays, put off by dialogue and the attentiveness required for plot twists. And yet, when I do indulge in the other-world that is fiction, it intrigues me deeply.
The Mulvaneys seem as real as my own family. I can see and feel their rambling farmhouse. I mourn over the bleakness that their tragedy introduces. My real-life tragedies have been different, but my emotions have been right there with the Mulvaneys. Stephen King admits the sin: Fiction is a lie. However, he adds an important afterthought: good fiction is the truth inside the lie. I keep relearning this when I pick up a good novel.
Fiction seems natural enough for Gavin. This morning he added a centipede storm to the list of natural disasters his Rescue Heroes must face. He wanted me to remember his “making things in the junkyard” dream—surely I was there! I love the all things are possible mind of a child. The hardwiring for censorship and propriety has not been installed yet. I want to get back to that place.
But I am pretty hardwired, at this late age of 38. Despite reassuring quotes on the hidden truths, writing fiction feels like lying. I sweat as if my keyboard were a lie detector. Still, all of the arrows keep pointing to fiction of late. I just got an invitation for a fiction writing workshop. I may just sign up.
It feels like it’s time for a sea change. Spring is here, and it feels long overdue. We stopped the car twice to hear peepers in the marsh. I walked without my jacket. I checked the porch eaves for the wren that comes every spring (no sign yet, but she is coming). There is a story somewhere beneath all of this sweet, ordinary life.
I am a slow burn, not an idea factory as I would wish. But even with my low simmer, ideas are brewing. I can feel them bubbling up from below the surface.
When I was pregnant, relentless gentle kicks reminded me that something great was coming. This joyous anticipation, also conceived in the spring, feels just like those kicks. Something good is definitely coming.
PS: Yelled to Tom and Gavin, I’m just putting my blog up. I thought of farm women I’ve heard on TV, canning their best fruits and “putting them up” for the winter. I love to think of the storehouse of blogs I am tucking away on the shelves of this cyber root cellar. Maybe Gavin will harvest them someday, and learn a bit more about me. Maybe I will harvest them and craft a book. The prospect is juicier than canned tomatoes.
I rarely read fiction, but this week I am reading Oates’ We Were the Mulvaneys. I am usually drawn to the flat truthfulness of personal essays, put off by dialogue and the attentiveness required for plot twists. And yet, when I do indulge in the other-world that is fiction, it intrigues me deeply.
The Mulvaneys seem as real as my own family. I can see and feel their rambling farmhouse. I mourn over the bleakness that their tragedy introduces. My real-life tragedies have been different, but my emotions have been right there with the Mulvaneys. Stephen King admits the sin: Fiction is a lie. However, he adds an important afterthought: good fiction is the truth inside the lie. I keep relearning this when I pick up a good novel.
Fiction seems natural enough for Gavin. This morning he added a centipede storm to the list of natural disasters his Rescue Heroes must face. He wanted me to remember his “making things in the junkyard” dream—surely I was there! I love the all things are possible mind of a child. The hardwiring for censorship and propriety has not been installed yet. I want to get back to that place.
But I am pretty hardwired, at this late age of 38. Despite reassuring quotes on the hidden truths, writing fiction feels like lying. I sweat as if my keyboard were a lie detector. Still, all of the arrows keep pointing to fiction of late. I just got an invitation for a fiction writing workshop. I may just sign up.
It feels like it’s time for a sea change. Spring is here, and it feels long overdue. We stopped the car twice to hear peepers in the marsh. I walked without my jacket. I checked the porch eaves for the wren that comes every spring (no sign yet, but she is coming). There is a story somewhere beneath all of this sweet, ordinary life.
I am a slow burn, not an idea factory as I would wish. But even with my low simmer, ideas are brewing. I can feel them bubbling up from below the surface.
When I was pregnant, relentless gentle kicks reminded me that something great was coming. This joyous anticipation, also conceived in the spring, feels just like those kicks. Something good is definitely coming.
PS: Yelled to Tom and Gavin, I’m just putting my blog up. I thought of farm women I’ve heard on TV, canning their best fruits and “putting them up” for the winter. I love to think of the storehouse of blogs I am tucking away on the shelves of this cyber root cellar. Maybe Gavin will harvest them someday, and learn a bit more about me. Maybe I will harvest them and craft a book. The prospect is juicier than canned tomatoes.
posted by Katherine H | 6:03 AM
1 Comments:
KATHY, LOST MY ORIGINAL COMMENTS. I LIKE THIS BLOG VERY MUCH. YES, LIKE CANNING, YOU ARE PUTTING THINGS UP.
JOYCE HAS AN UNUSUAL NUMBER OF IDEAS. I THINK STEPHEN KING IS THE SAME. HE SAYS HE HAS TO WRITE.
I THINK YOU SHOULD ENROLL IN A FICTION CLASS. TRUTH WITHIN A LIE!
I STILL PREFER THE MEDIUM OF POETRY. I MAJORED IN IT AT COLLEGE. AS FEW OF WORDS AS POSSIBLE TO EXPRESS A THOUGHT-
KEEP UP THE EXCELLENT BLOGGING! LOVE, M.
Post a Comment
<< Home