Coronavirus...Accomplished
roughdraft
Thursday, April 16. Last July I published a blog post titled "Shattered Skies". It was an experiment, a short fiction inspired by letters I inherited from Grandma on my dad's side of the family. The character, Johnny, was actually my uncle Joe, my father's younger brother who was only 22 when the B-17 he plunged into stormy waters between Europe and England in November 1944. I knew little about him. There were photographs, the letters and bits of memorabilia that Grandma had saved, but I don't remember any stories about him. My family is not a story collecting or storytelling family. We don't save stuff from which engaging stories emerge. We only share snippets of embarrassments when one of us did something really stupid, weird or out of character and we wanted to give others a good laugh. This leaves little fodder for a want-to-be writer whose second item on her bucket list is to publish a novel.
I've been pushing myself to write since imprisoned in Memphis, TN back in 2007. While not actually in jail, I sat in my office (a converted garage) behind our townhouse, attempting to write a first novel while my husband launched a second career in the private sector. It was a total bust. My male protagonist had no depth (I found it impossible to talk about him except in anger), my female protagonist was blind to reality and too earnest (I kept seeing her as the caged victim). Many of their episodes together seemed "unreal" to my draft readers, even though all, but the closing scene, actually happened. I had no perspective. Despite writing workshops, online lessons and half a dozen "How to write fiction" books, I just didn't have that magic required to spin an engaging story, although I mastered "scene" writing, much improved descriptive structure, and started to understand how to create an engaging plot. I didn't have the ability to let reality be only the stepping off point for a story, a way to bring life to the page without replicating it.
But, last August, with no work and few distractions, I tried again. I asked myself, "Suppose, when my uncle met his fiery death, he left behind a relationship during the four months he was stationed in England that would change the course of my family's history?" So, I started with research and then plunged into a turbulent sea of words and possibilities. Yesterday, nine months and more than 60,000 words later, I gave birth to a first draft of that story.
I was able to do it, because I finally learned that writing is not a one shot deal. I always understood that logically, but emotionally I couldn't carry out the layering, an iterative process that builds richness and weaves a story over time. That takes patience, which was never my strong suit. It requires that I listen to my characters. It has bursts of creative outpourings sandwiched between gaps of thoughtless ruminating.
The pages are now in the hands of several people I trust to read it and tell me the truth. Is it a tale others would savor reading? I think it could be, but, like all my writing, I have my doubts. We'll see what they say and then decide what happens next.