The sky above sends me love, and a dove, to soothe my love, comes by.
That was around 1971. It's amazing to think of the impression Hallmark can make on a young child's brain and its budding poetry production. My parents duly framed it in a circular frame, adding to the "Love Is.." sort of sentimentality. I remember them being so pleased. What were they thinking? Our daughter: Future greeting card writer!
I am going to a Creativity Workshop tomorrow, as in "getting rid of obstacles to creativity." I am not sure I can get rid of my job, my family, and other adult responsibilities, but I will try. Some books I read recently perked me up about writing again: Nervous Conditions by Tsitsi Dangarembga; Restless by William Boyd; A Mercy by Toni Morrison (I did not read them in that order, but I did read them simultaneously at one point). (Those are random courtesy links that I have yet to read - this is not PhD Land!) The combination, along with Alan Moore's Watchman, a graphic novel Big Kid loaned me, have me remembering little details I thought about when I wrote. I was reminded of stories I authored, revised, and had critiqued over and over. It is all so private, those thoughts one has while writing and while planning writing. Indeed, last night I dreamed that Ball and Chain and I were staging another wedding, an event that takes place in one of the books. In my dream, I had forgotten my dress, and no one in the legions of people (it was populated with everyone I have ever met) could help me effectively. As I write this I have that sense of everything coming out as a platitude or a cliche. I'm rusty, self-conscious, and moving on here.
A Mercy was powerfully written, of course, but I found it hard to follow, as it is written, in part, in a slave's dialect, and others, in the 1680s. The writing was compelling, but hard to parse, and I do tire of the multi-perspective book. I definitely found the main character appealing, but she did not say enough for me. The book I had been working on - eons ago - had three narrators, so that must be what got my brain re-thinking writing. What to do for your reader once your narrator is accepted, only to be torn away for a later chapter? I read Restless next and I fell in love with one of the narrators (yes, more perspectives). She reminded me of a carefree friend from years ago who had an oh-well sensibility, but somehow turned rigid as an adult. The story is a great thriller, also, and written with clean detail - no flowery language and a lot of female bravado.
Finally, I read Nervous Conditions, a political novel about a girl growing up in Zimbabwe in the '60s (then Rhodesia), and her transformation as she has more exposure to British ways. That sounds dull but it was not. The narrator - only one - is honest, detailed, and open about her jealousies and flaws. She is insecure about her identity, her place in her family, and her willingness to set aside her convictions to get the status that she craves. I usually forgo overtly political novels, as genuine voice sometimes seems sacrificed for politic's sake. There is no hero in the text, though, and the prose is exacting in its descriptions of the personalities and conflicts in the family. The narrator's mother, in particular, is wildly angry and cruel but fundamentally correct in her 'uneducated' assertions. The first line got me right away: "I was not sorry when my brother died." I reread the first chapter after finishing the book - a new habit of mine - and it completed the story beautifully. Her brother's death makes her own advancement possible; her brother's status as a male created a distance between them from when they were small.
It is not ironic that I should read a book that starts with a brother's death, or an apparently crass first line. I was able to read it as someone else's experience, and as anyone who has experienced loss knows, it is that detachment versus engagement that can make the reality difficult. I am living without my brother, and I do not want to do it. Time moves ahead, and I see things that my brother will never see. Now he is gone and I will write no platitudes. I will see to my creativity, though, and maybe write a bit more.
