Maybe Later
I've been putting off writing that fictionalized version of a childhood event. After much soul searching, I've come to the conclusion that my fiction is about me getting as far removed from myself as possible. When discussing my work in progress with my sisters yesterday, one commented to another, "She lives in a fantasy world." And though I felt a little wounded by the statement, I replied, "All good writers do."
Perhaps there are some great stories begging to emerge from my childhood. It was a mixed bag of blessing and horror. I came from a dysfunctional family. The dysfunction arising when my father's free spirited, compulsive, addictive personality melded with my mom's, which was solid, traditional, and disciplined. I have both the fairytale childhood and the nightmare childhood. When my father was sober, my life was a Norman Rockwell painting. When he was not, it was hell. I have spent many years in trying to put pieces of my past behind me. I have forgiven him many trespasses and hurts. Seldom do I dredge up the painful things that shaped my cynical views of life. Lately I have tried to focus on the beautiful heritage that was left by my mom. You can ready my tribute to her here.
I have tried to imagine a scenario from my childhood that I could adapt into a short story. Inevitably the pain grips me, and I am rendered useless for writing. It doesn't matter if I try to think of the happier times, because with the memory of the happy days comes the knowledge that my parents are gone. I am an orphan. I no longer have the luxury of having either of them in my life. At this moment, my chest is pounding with anxiety as I finally remind myself to breathe. I exhale in a long, deep sigh. All that was good is gone. All that was bad is gone. For now I must rest content to build my stories from worlds a million miles away. For right now, Dave, I find my childhood to be just a tad to close to home.
Perhaps there are some great stories begging to emerge from my childhood. It was a mixed bag of blessing and horror. I came from a dysfunctional family. The dysfunction arising when my father's free spirited, compulsive, addictive personality melded with my mom's, which was solid, traditional, and disciplined. I have both the fairytale childhood and the nightmare childhood. When my father was sober, my life was a Norman Rockwell painting. When he was not, it was hell. I have spent many years in trying to put pieces of my past behind me. I have forgiven him many trespasses and hurts. Seldom do I dredge up the painful things that shaped my cynical views of life. Lately I have tried to focus on the beautiful heritage that was left by my mom. You can ready my tribute to her here.
I have tried to imagine a scenario from my childhood that I could adapt into a short story. Inevitably the pain grips me, and I am rendered useless for writing. It doesn't matter if I try to think of the happier times, because with the memory of the happy days comes the knowledge that my parents are gone. I am an orphan. I no longer have the luxury of having either of them in my life. At this moment, my chest is pounding with anxiety as I finally remind myself to breathe. I exhale in a long, deep sigh. All that was good is gone. All that was bad is gone. For now I must rest content to build my stories from worlds a million miles away. For right now, Dave, I find my childhood to be just a tad to close to home.
posted by C. H. Green | 10:51 AM
3 Comments:
Hi Cindy,
Sorry you have painful childhood memories. Hopefully in time you'll be able to write about the happy memories or even about the painful ones, whether they be fiction or non.
I thought the mother's tribute you wrote (on your blog) was wonderful. And I wonder, in time, if you couldn't write a (fictional)short story, using the memories you mention there. (You can pick one or two of your mother's happy memories (or attributes) and write from there.)
Thanks for sharing your heart.
Alot of that post was written the night she died. I just adapted it to fit the post. I spent hours that night typing up exactly what we wanted the minister to say. I look back on that and wonder how I did that. But I did. I think the fact that today is Mother's Day intensified my loneliness and feelings of helplessness. I do write alot about my mom. I tend to wax sentimental. I tend to overglorify her. But she was my rock during those years. I tell myself I will write her story one day, but just composing the post yesterday sent me into a downward spiral. I MISS HER SOOOO MUCH. I imagine in time stories will emerge. The novel I am working on incorporates memories from a time in my life 20 years ago when I had my first job out of college in a rural town. I thought I would never get past that horrible year either. So nothing is impossible.
Cindy,
My first thought--unsolicited as it is--is it possible that the diverse contrast you experienced with your father has left you thinking in very black or white terms? Somewhere in the middle is a great story....somewhere in between "I am paralyzed by the nightmare" and "Life was great" are very meaningful lessons. Sometimes, when we black or white thinkers think--we don't act if we aren't in the black or the white. Did that translate as I wanted it to? See there I go again, thinking this, "If I can't communicate this properly, I should hit the delete button!" It's the either or thinking that strangles our creativity. I will choose to stay in the grey and hit the publish button! My motivation? Your amazing ability to grab the reader.....and keep them until the last word!
:) Diane
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