My own writing-A surprise

It has been a long while since I have worked on my novel. I have been, perhaps avoiding it. It is a large project, of course, and feeling like I needed something more immediate to validate my existance as a writer, I have recently turned my energy and writing time towards shorter more immediate pieces. Having gained some success and exposure I decided it was time to get back to writing fiction.

This morning as I sat with my cup of chai and began to read the pages of my novel, I found myself emotional with my own words. Are my characters so very real that I was caught up in their struggles? Was I amazed at the intelligent prose I actually am capable of creating when I sit down and write fiction? Or was it simply that I realized just how much work I had still left to do....

I confess this isn't the first emotional hug I've had with my own writing but it surprises me every time. Certainly I am a harsh self-critic and so this emotional release stumps me.

Today I will choose to believe that my words do hold power.

Here is a short section from my novel Crossings.

Damon hated the attitude of the younger cop with his streaked blond hair and his purple-rimmed eye wear. Still he answered all the questions thoroughly, maintaining eye contact throughout and using a clear voice. His mother told him if he ever was pulled aside by any police officer he was to cooperate to the fullest, no matter what.
A robbery had occurred close by. Not in the complex he lived in or any of the other complexes which flanked the east side of much of the boulevard, but a house in a proper neighbourhood not far, but far enough in terms of wealth and attitude. He was not a suspect, the two policemen kept telling him, still they needed him to answer a few questions.
He was happy to hear his brothers had already arrived home before the blockade was set up outside the gates to the complex. They’d remain inside now and not be made to feel a criminal like he had. Coming home, he had found the two of them involved in a wrestle with Leon being held down against the floor in a headlock and the living room in a great state of disruption.
Losing his temper and lashing out on the boys always troubled him. He knew his father would be disappointed in him, but sometimes the rage just bursts forth from him before he is even aware of his anger.
He had pulled the two boys apart roughly and seated them at opposite ends of the room. They were sweating, all three of them and it took several minutes for their collective breathing to slow. Finally, order was restored and the anxiety in Damon had subsided.
He felt the weight of his father’s death daily. It was hard, he knew, for his mother to do it all alone and she had to lean on him, he didn’t blame her. Still, there were times he walked through his life with an uneasy sense of anxiety in his breast and he wished, oh he wished, he could just sit down and close his eyes for fifteen minutes.

Charlie, aged 8, is like Richard...in a way...and I love it.

I finally read both Mrs Dalloway by Virginia Woolf and The Hours by Michael Cunningham back-to-back. In The Hours I came across this passage and paused for a moment (I love a good character sketch). While arguably not a complimentary fleshing out of the adult character Richard, I liked it. Richard's childlike. It reminded me of watching my son Charlie play over the years. Charlie has an enormous need for imaginary play and he creates grandiose scenes inspired by the current book he is reading. He also has an enormous need for others to join in with him.

"Richard cannot imagine a life more interesting or worthwhile than those being lived by his aquaintances and himself, and for that reason one often feels exhalted, expanded in his presence...He is the opposite kind of egoist, driven by grandiosity rather than greed and if he insists on a version of you that is funnier, stranger, more eccentric and profound than you suspect yourself to be... it is all but impossible not to believe, at least in his presence and for a while after you've left him, that he alone sees through to your essence, weighs your true qualities (not all of which are necessarily flattering-a certain clumsy, childish rudeness is part of his style) and appreciates you more fully than anyone else ever has. It is only after knowing him for sometime that you begin to realize you are, to him, an essentially fictional character, one he has invested with nearly limitless capacities for tragedy and comedy not because that is your true nature but because he, Richard, needs to live in a world peopled by extreme and commanding figures. Some have ended their relations with him rather than continue as figures in the epic poem he is always composing in his head, the story of his life and passions, but others enjoy the sense of hyperbole he brings to their lives."

Of course Charlie is only eight.

Writing-Parenting-Teaching -Learning ALL Works in Progress

Life is generous at the moment. It is giving me time to explore, reflect and create. There is so much for me to learn and to read and to make sense of-to figure out or just marvel at. James has moved our family to Houston away from old friends and old routines--which shook me up to be honest. What I have found is a new sense of creativity and a community which is opening new possibilities for me. I am, life is, a work in progress. How liberating. How exciting.