I do not visit these memories often. But something about the dark sky and a recent occurrence, has caused a certain memory to return to the forefront of my mind. This memory, as with all memories, will always be a part of me. The most I can hope, is that by writing about them, I will slide them gently back into the far corner of my mind from whence they came. A place that often provides the substance behind my novels.
As I begin the task of reviewing my second novel, now that it has been edited by the copy editor, I am forced to not only take a firm position regarding my story line, but to also bring these memories out of storage and experience them once again. Many of you may not realize, but I write from a very authentic, been-there view point. Although my stories do not replicate my life, they do, in part, mirror the essence of what I've experienced.
Within the first few pages of my novel, my characters learn that one of their own is faced with a life threatening diagnosis and a very possible life altering prognosis. Standing outside the imposing, monstrous walls of the hospital their hearts plummet as their bodies drop slowly onto the concrete curb that borders the hospital. There these two men sit: elbows resting heavily on their knees, cigarettes burning slowly between their fingers, their addled minds struggling to comprehend all that's just been told to them. While the hospital stands dauntingly behind these two, the uncertainty of life reminds them that at best, humans are small in comparison to the hand of fate which is large and often, unkind. Like an unexpected, unseen freight train that crashed hard against them, their minds are left broken and scattered - instantly they are shown that humans never escape vulnerability. I was that small human, sitting on the curb outside of the hospital. I know the impact of hearing an unfathomable diagnosis and the way in which it ravishes the soul. So when my copy editor decided to put my two characters (who by the way are both very non pretentious, very raw men), onto a cement park bench – I quickly replaced his words and the subsequent visual he created, back with that of my own. I know the movie that plays in my mind, I know the thoughts my characters think. I also know the horrors and joys they feel. I’ve been-there. And although it may seem, at first glance, as a small adjustment he made, it radically changed the essence of the moment. And in doing so, it no longer portrayed the movie that played in my mind. A movie is not directed well, in my opinion, because of the large overdone action scenes, but by the small scenes that draw the viewer in and cause them to feel as though they "know" the moment.
I know how it feels to sit on a curb processing words you never imagined hearing. I know how it feels to sit inside a small dark office, while the low steady voice of the brain surgeon lists the many possible complications that may occur during my son’s impending brain surgery. I know how it feels to force one’s eyes to focus and make sense of a computer screen displaying the baseball sized tumor growing inside my eleven year old's skull. I tried to mute the sound of the surgeon's voice, because unlike a parent who after scanning the long list of possible life altering side effects caused by a vaccine, and is given a choice as to how to proceed, I had no choice. My son’s death was imminent if the tumor lodged next to his brain was not removed. Much of my soul died that day. And even now, I can’t say all of my soul has ever fully been resurrected.
I can’t possibly cause my reader to feel what I felt in that moment, yet, I can strive to come close. Through my words I can attempt to brush over their soul a light dusting of the heartache I felt, and thus the heartache my characters felt when they too tried to absorb words they never imagined they would hear. Sometimes life brings us to our knees. Or perhaps I should say, often it has brought me to mine. I hope as a writer I am able to imbed within my words, the raw emotion, both good and bad, that I have experienced. I can assure you, that when life does decide to pull the rug out from under one’s feet - sending us swiftly to the ground - it’s not always so kind as to supply a park bench.
Sane
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