One time when I was four, I stuck a button up my nose. I was watching Saturday morning cartoons with my brother while my parents slept in and that button fit my nostril just perfectly. I was showing my brother how I could use it to make a nostril cap and the next thing I knew it was too far in for me to dig out.
One time when I was four, I chewed an entire pack of Grape Bubble Yum, stretched it out into a rope, and then wound it around and around my leg. When I tried to get it off, it stuck everywhere. I finally had to go get my mom and show her my purple leg. It didn't come off. I wasn't allowed to chew gum for a very long time after that.
One time when I was four, I was watching Romper Room. Snack time was over and they were getting ready to dance with Mr. Do-Bee and suddenly the action stopped because a little girl was crying. She didn't get a chance to finish her cookie. I cried too. It was horrible.
I was looking over a bit of fiction for an acquaintance the other day and feeling the lizard in my brain getting a little feisty. Her fiction was gorgeous in its simplicity - engaging characters, believable dialogue, a clear setting, a story that moved. I was impressed and I was jealous. Why can't I write fiction? I have tried so many times and it comes out stilted, cliched, boring, unreadable. Certainly nothing I would package up and send anywhere except the recycling bin. No fair! This is a discussion I have with myself a lot.
I read a remarkable short fiction piece on another blog. She had written the piece in the first person and it was personally evocative for several of her readers. She apologized for the immediacy and intimacy of the first person perspective because it seemed too real. I think some people didn't realize it was purely fictional.
I say it frequently enough, I don't write fiction. I don't write short stories, I don't write novels. I don't "have a novel in me" as some claim to do. I write... what? Nonsense, mostly. Stuff I've been thinking about, memories, observations, elaborations on a few moments in time. Technically, if it were bound in a book and gathering dust on the bargain rack of an independent bookstore someplace, it would be considered non-fiction if it would be considered at all. But here's the thing: isn't the very act of conjuring these thoughts, stretching them out, dressing them in pretty words, turning them this way and that to make a point, isn't that creating a form of fiction?
Consider: I write about very real moments with my very real children, but I select the moments carefully. I choose moments that speak to me, things I can write well about, things that make a larger point. I don't make up the characters or setting or dialogue, but the overall picture that's painted is not technically accurate. It's a small moment in a day full of other more mundane or more regrettable moments; but you, the reader, get a picture of a gentle mom with the right thing to say, not the fuller picture of a mom with plumber's butt and dirty hair who has mastered the art of the strategically placed "mmm-hmmm" when a small person tells a long story she's long since tuned out. Does this not create a kind of fiction?
Consider my memories above. Three separate instances of complete childishness from over thirty years ago. They are my memories, they really did happen. If you ask my mom, she may say they happened differently or she may not remember that they happened at all. Which is true? Isn't the act of remembering simply creating the story of our lives?
I was talking to a friend today about a folk dancing class I took in college. I got a D and blew my 4.0 because during the final I turned the wrong way and smacked the girl next to me across the bridge of her nose with a tambourine. My friend thought this was hilarious and was appropriately indignant that my GPA was ruined by a folk dancing class, but as she was laughing she said "That sounds like something out of a book!" This notion rankles. We look to fiction for stories, for fantastic happenings, for entertainment. And it does provide all those things, but what about the non-fiction? People's lives are full of entertaining stories, fantastic happenings that embellish with the telling.
These are the questions I've been mulling, so I'll put them out there and see what gives. I have no point today, just a lot of open-ended questions and a growing restlessness. I will own up to a certain gift for writing, but writing what?
One time when I was four, I dressed up as Barbara Walters and interviewed my brother who pretended to be a famous boxer. I had a blond wig, a speech impediment and everything. That's got to be worth something.
One time when I was four, I chewed an entire pack of Grape Bubble Yum, stretched it out into a rope, and then wound it around and around my leg. When I tried to get it off, it stuck everywhere. I finally had to go get my mom and show her my purple leg. It didn't come off. I wasn't allowed to chew gum for a very long time after that.
One time when I was four, I was watching Romper Room. Snack time was over and they were getting ready to dance with Mr. Do-Bee and suddenly the action stopped because a little girl was crying. She didn't get a chance to finish her cookie. I cried too. It was horrible.
***
I read a remarkable short fiction piece on another blog. She had written the piece in the first person and it was personally evocative for several of her readers. She apologized for the immediacy and intimacy of the first person perspective because it seemed too real. I think some people didn't realize it was purely fictional.
I say it frequently enough, I don't write fiction. I don't write short stories, I don't write novels. I don't "have a novel in me" as some claim to do. I write... what? Nonsense, mostly. Stuff I've been thinking about, memories, observations, elaborations on a few moments in time. Technically, if it were bound in a book and gathering dust on the bargain rack of an independent bookstore someplace, it would be considered non-fiction if it would be considered at all. But here's the thing: isn't the very act of conjuring these thoughts, stretching them out, dressing them in pretty words, turning them this way and that to make a point, isn't that creating a form of fiction?
Consider: I write about very real moments with my very real children, but I select the moments carefully. I choose moments that speak to me, things I can write well about, things that make a larger point. I don't make up the characters or setting or dialogue, but the overall picture that's painted is not technically accurate. It's a small moment in a day full of other more mundane or more regrettable moments; but you, the reader, get a picture of a gentle mom with the right thing to say, not the fuller picture of a mom with plumber's butt and dirty hair who has mastered the art of the strategically placed "mmm-hmmm" when a small person tells a long story she's long since tuned out. Does this not create a kind of fiction?
Consider my memories above. Three separate instances of complete childishness from over thirty years ago. They are my memories, they really did happen. If you ask my mom, she may say they happened differently or she may not remember that they happened at all. Which is true? Isn't the act of remembering simply creating the story of our lives?
I was talking to a friend today about a folk dancing class I took in college. I got a D and blew my 4.0 because during the final I turned the wrong way and smacked the girl next to me across the bridge of her nose with a tambourine. My friend thought this was hilarious and was appropriately indignant that my GPA was ruined by a folk dancing class, but as she was laughing she said "That sounds like something out of a book!" This notion rankles. We look to fiction for stories, for fantastic happenings, for entertainment. And it does provide all those things, but what about the non-fiction? People's lives are full of entertaining stories, fantastic happenings that embellish with the telling.
These are the questions I've been mulling, so I'll put them out there and see what gives. I have no point today, just a lot of open-ended questions and a growing restlessness. I will own up to a certain gift for writing, but writing what?
One time when I was four, I dressed up as Barbara Walters and interviewed my brother who pretended to be a famous boxer. I had a blond wig, a speech impediment and everything. That's got to be worth something.
I often do what you do--I share little stories from my real experience to create an environment of familiarity with readers and to help guide my post to whatever point I'm trying to make. The stories are true--from my perspective--and yes, I understand what you're saying about your posts (and mine) painting incomplete pictures, aka fictionalizing us.
ReplyDeleteI think that if we look at our blog posts as chapters in a larger work, much of that one-dimensional fictionalizing drifts away. Perfect, witty women show their impatient sides, their struggles, and their vulnerabilities, creating a better picture of the whole truth and in the process, endearing blogger to readers, each perfectly imperfect, too.
Thank you, Word Nerd. I think you make a good point.
DeleteInteresting. You are a fantastic writer, and I've always made sure when I sit down to read your blog that I have time to do it, because there are lots of juicy, awesome words and ways that you work around and in and out of what you are talking about. Sort of fantastical ways of talking about your real life. Does that transfer to the ability to write fiction? I don't know. The way you write shows me you are grabbing the here and now of your reality, that you are truly in the moment in your life.
ReplyDeleteWhen I first read the post title, my mind immediately flashed on a movie I saw recently which has become my number one favorite movie (besides Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?). It's called Another Earth. It is so painfully beautiful, and a small thread of science fiction weaves in and out of a larger breathtaking emotional story. You should see it. I loved it.
Your thoughts echo mine, T.L. I also have no novel waiting inside me, and also rely on my own experiences for a source of writing. I have put out 250,000 words on my military "career," attempting to infuse the entire humorless experience in a sea of comedy. What's more, I do not care if it ever gets read.
ReplyDeleteI want to ask Word Nerd, if there is room for a guy in her blogging world, where "Perfect, witty women show their impatient sides, their struggles, and their vulnerabilities…" I have certainly shared a few recent struggles.
I just went to visit your blog, Mark, and though I read just one post so far, I know I'll be back. :O)
DeleteMark, that's a lot of words. I guess what I struggle with is that I do care if it gets read, I'm just not sure HOW MUCH I care if it gets read. There's the writing I do for myself that no one reads, the writing I do for my blog which some people read, and then the writing I want to do for the world... but do I? And how?
DeleteAnd you can be a "perfect, witty woman" if you want to! ;)
I'm here to tell you: Markie IS a perfect witty woman -- with certain features that suggest perfect witty man too.....
Deleteand the word verification thingy? semen - I kid you not - I would not make that up (even though I do spend my days with adolescents).
Piece of advice for you the neXt time you are reincarnated: Skip the year four. Have an eXtra three or thirty three, your choice.
ReplyDeleteWordVeri: viallu - a tiny quantity of lu just for you, ah, how special!
After reading your entire post I have changed my mind and think it would be more fun for you to do a "Groundhog Day" movie type loop where you do year numb-er quattro several times.
DeleteI had a delightful time with a seventh grade girl yesterday evening while my wife worked on her mom's hair. We had a great time sharing puppy stories and pictures. Magical moments.
You are too much! You just crack me up. 4 was a memorable year for me for some reason, eh? Don't think I'd want to do without it though - nor would I want to do it over and over!
DeleteYour writing style is captivating and engaging - perfect for a columnist (which is what a lot of blogs are, really), either newspaper or magazine. Pick a dozen posts that have some relevance to current events, or write new ones, submit them to a parenting magazine or Oprah or *something* because your writing well deserves a wider audience. Not that you don't have a good readership here, but seriously ... spread your wings.
ReplyDeleteOh my, thank you. I balk at submitting anything, anywhere. I'm working up to it, though. This blog is the first time since I was about 11 that anyone besides me read my writing. Your encouragement is much appreciated.
DeleteIn my family, we have a joke about who can make someone cry first- like at a birthday party. (They're always happy tears.) Today, you would have fit right in. Your kindness overwhelms me.
ReplyDeleteThat said, I am jealous of you on a DAILY basis because of the beautiful and humorous way you write. Often, I sit open-mouthed because I'm in awe of the way you weave your words. You don't need fiction because your life, and the way you tell it, is the best story.
And- I remember Romper Room! Every day I'd wait and hope that she'd say my name as she looked through her magic mirror. My name is pretty common, but I never heard her say it. Such disappointment!
DeleteBless your heart. Do not be jealous of my meanderings. I appreciate your kind, kind words. I feel a little guilty now because I wasn't fishing for compliments, just thinking out loud and now my darling readers have stepped in and said SUCH NICE THINGS. I blush.
DeleteMy dear fellow blogger, You possess the skils and desires now all you need is to do it. There lies the rub. You included in your blog examples of writings that I found to be excruciating pap. Your story is much more interesting and has a hardened character in it who is battling the unknown. I, for example, would want to know why your mother sees things diffently than you. Perhaps your mom is secretly a serial killer and what you said came close to her secret and later this could complicate your life. What happened to the girl you hit with your tambourine. Perhaps she suffered such damage that she is lying in wait for you, planning your end. Or the purple gum was not really gum but some mysterious substance that could change you into barbara walters. What if your brother is secretly a boxer, lives in france and fishes from a boat that gets caught in a storm and he rescues a pretty argentinian colonel who has the secrets for invading england. And he tells you this and suddenly strange spanish speaking men are killing off your neighbours......
ReplyDeleteReaders are a fickle bunch, what you like, I may not like and I told you so. A novel is simply longer that a blog. That is all to me. If I was you, I would start at the beginning and when I came to the end, stop. There is enough plot and writing in this blog to make a novel. Write for yourself. That is the novel part. Have someone read it, one, maybe ten, and it becomes literature. Have someone pay you for it and you have a living of sorts.
See, that's just it, though. I don't want to write a novel. Why can't it be enough to write about the complicated and beautiful woman that mother actually is? To explain why we don't see things the same way as two separate and different complicated women? Would that be "excruciating pap"? Perhaps. I dunno. I have an old fashioned notion of literature like it MUST be fiction. Just wrestling with demons. Maybe I will write a 50,000 word blog post and shop it as a novel!
Deletei may have tumbled my words when i wrote the comment. blogging you know, fast, no spell check and pure input and sometimes phrases juxtapose and invert a meaning. i said that your writing was great and that the links you included as evidence of great writing were in comparison to yours, pap. not mad are you? I dont know your mom, but my mom had strange ideas and ways, sort of along the lines of "i brought you into this world and i can take you out" feelings. we disagreed on the baby in the family, an elder abuser and a dope fiend. i did not like him and my poor demented codependent mama sided with him. she is in the midst of alzheimers hell now and she descended there while angry with me, so i cant even see her now withour causing a riot in the carehome. sigh.
DeleteNo, I'm not mad. Just thinking out loud. I appreciated your comments and welcome lively discussion. I am so sorry about your mother. I used to work with Alzheimer's patients. They could deal with me because they had met me after the fact, but it was hard to watch the emotion and confusion caused by interaction with family members. Such a tangled existence we all live, especially in the realm of mothers.
DeleteI think, perhaps, that's one of the reasons I began a blog in the first place. Not with the intention of others reading my rambles, but to keep the fiction of today live in some form, so that someday, I may look back and see all the "entertaining stories, fantastic happenings that embellish with the telling."
ReplyDeleteUnfortunately, most times we'll have no problem remembering the grease and grime, but to read the embellished tales, will be special someday. It becomes our own little stories, our own little novels.
That's part of the reason I blog, too. But if it were simply a record for myself, it would be saved in a file on my desktop or still in my journal. There has to be some desire to be read to choose this medium.
DeleteYou are so incredibly special.
Nothing is fiction, and everything is fiction. As usual from ou, wise words beautifully put. I think there is more to you, and in you, than you can imagine.
ReplyDeleteThis comment just leaves me speechless and a little teary-eyed. Thank you. And I completely agree with you about fiction. It's kind of a silly distinction in literature.
DeleteI'm in a similar boat - I've often been frustrated by my inability to write fiction. Thank you for your perspective on this... I'd never thought of it that way before, but you've made a great point. Selective truth is a sort of fiction!
ReplyDeleteThank you! I'm glad to know I'm not the only one who wrestles with this.
DeleteI agree with Debbi and Jewels about the effect your writing has on me. That being said, I see what you mean about the snippets of our life presented on a blog being fictional. Obviously (we hope), we are all being honest and retelling true events or at least being honest about our thoughts and emotions relative to those events we recount. But because our perspective is necessarily biased in its subjectivity, it is fictionalized in a way-no matter how honest we are.
ReplyDeleteThank you, darling.
DeleteRE: Fictional non-fiction: I struggle with this a lot. I don't mind that it becomes a bit fictionalized because I'm not really writing it for scholarly purposes or claiming any sort of expertise. I'm just wandering around looking for a genre.
I also am not much of a fiction writer. All my writer comes down to tapped out navel gazing about what amuses and confounds me. That's what I LIKE about YOUR writing, by the way. And I totally get your point about making our own fiction. It really is ALL fiction. And you would make an awesome columnist.
ReplyDeleteSo much to comment on here. I have never been a writer of fiction either. I have the imagination but I don't have the novel in me. I've always gone with essayist. I enjoy reflecting on what I observe, what I've read, seen, or heard, what I remember - all of that. I like playing with images and word and I LOVE reading the way other people create images with words. You are exceptionally talented and I agree with others - you have a column in you. I am so glad to be plugged into what you write every day.
ReplyDeleteI appreciate that. I, too, love to read your essays and your word play. I think it may be one of the things we most take for granted is our originality of language. My metaphors seem obvious and hackneyed in my head because I hear them all the time in my head. Does that make sense? And then I am always surprised that they mean something to others. It is truly a gift to have such avid and supportive readers.
DeleteI would like to first echo the sentiments shared by lots of others in saying that I think you have a truly magical gift with words and whatever topic you decide to take up would surely find a home in publication. And, just in the brief time I've been reading you, there's no doubt that you have a wealth of usable (even enviable) material at your disposal. ;)
ReplyDeleteI was thinking the other day about how everything I write on the blog is true, but it is not the whole truth. I think that's true in a larger sense of the other writing I (or any of us, really) puts out there--regardless of which "category" it eventually ends up in. When you start a piece, you're picking and choosing the bits and pieces that help form its shape (sometimes I think the shape is organic to the piece itself and sometimes there's more conscious tinkering and control).
I haven't written "fiction" since just after high school--and a lot of what I've had published are short column-style pieces--opinions, vignettes, etc. Some of my stuff has been more literary in nature, but that is stuff I probably won't share on the blog because it doesn't fit the bloggy persona I've (intentionally or unintentionally) created. I used to think that I lacked the imagination for fiction, but I know I use all my "factual" stuff in imaginative ways so that's not exactly it. Maybe I am just too self-involved or too deeply rooted to "real" life to wander off into fictional worlds. (Though wandering into other people's fictional worlds not only doesn't bother me, it actively intrigues me.)
Thanks, as always, for the food for thought.
(PS--Your Bubble Yum story reminds me of when I was seven and decided to be a pirate with a wad of Double Bubble for an eye patch. I'm lucky I even HAVE lashes and brows on that eye.)
I agree with and completely sympathize with everything you said. Even the pirate eye patch. Especially that. I love it when you have "catch up day" around the ol' blog front, by the way! Lots of MM comments - always something to look forward to!
DeleteI've asked myself these same questions. I struggle with what I would write - publish rather. There are published authors - famous authors - doing what we do but in book form. David Sedaris springs readily to mind. Fictionalized non-fiction if ever there was such a thing.
ReplyDeleteI think about him and a few notable others when I have these arguments with myself, but I hesitate to put myself in that league, you know?
Delete