this essay, but I hated the way it sounded (too whiny), so I started over entirely. Blank page. And now I am on page 234 of the new and improved version, which is from a much deeper point of view, much more internal. I am getting ready to head into the second half of the book, which deals with disinheritance. I have to say I'm a little overwhelmed at the idea of delving a new into such a hairy topic, but here I go anyway. What makes things all a bit unfun is the fact that my family wants me to stop writing about the topic. I think they wish I would shut the F*** up, or fall off the planet, but I have to write this book. I have to figure out what exactly happened to me and why. I've even found a decent literary method for never mentioning any of them by name: I write about my brothers as The Three. How about that for clever? But, whatever. They don't get it, and never will.
If they had the capacity to understand, I probably never would have been disinherited (by surprise) in the first place. Someone would have warned me. Anyway, they are all seemingly insulted by the essay, which I think is fairly gentle, to tell you the truth, and not even technically about them. There's barely a mention of them, but everybody has a right to his or her own opinion. Mostly, I've heard from them on the fact that they think we didn't have THAT many guns in the house when we were young. (!) (!!) (Huh?!) (What are you loons talking about?!) We had plenty of guns, believe me, more than I ever hope to see again in one place.
And you know what else is freaking weird? The members of my entire family have all managed to act like the novel I wrote and finally published did not ever exist. No one has said a word about it to me or to anyone else. They must not ever run into anyone from the old home time: like, the English teachers who have written me notes, or my classmates, or my childhood sweetheart's encouraging family who posted a picture of them holding my book in the local Barnes & Nobles. My family must not go to the dentist either, because it was right there in People Magazine next to Stephen King and Annie Lamott. (My novel did exist. It did exist. I know it existed.) Ah, forgive my crazy: I grew up in a family without mirrors. No one ever reflected anything back at me that seemed even remotely recognizable. Maybe that's why they don't recognize my written version of them. Maybe I am actually in the same bind as The Three; we are blind to one another. I wish we could join together to work our way out, but that is just another fantasy I sometimes have on a Monday afternoon when I am feeling a little blue.
Sometimes all this is a bit of a head trip, as you can see, but I know I am not the only
writer who has ever dealt with the literary dilemma of having a family.
Anyone want to share some wise advice, or links on the issue, or general thoughts, encouragements, criticism? I guess I'm feeling a little lonely in all this. Hoping there are still some mice out there to respond.
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Monday, October 19, 2015
Thursday, October 8, 2015
This is unexpected, friends.
It's not that I am light on understanding the temporal and linear nature of the physics of time, or anything; it is, instead, that I am just so used to looking forward for glory, not backward.
It's all a bit disturbing to realize the thing I have toiled over has already come to fruition, had a lovely day in the glare of media attention, been read by several people in the world, and is now a thing, separate from me, and in my past.
I need to look forward to something new. I am writing the memoir, but it's different--maybe just knowing that another book will not be the magic answer to all my human woes makes it so. I invested so much shiny hope into the novel; I believed so whole-heartedly that it would change my life once and for all!
But no one ever tells you about the year after you publish your first novel. No one ever tells you that seeing the light of your first novel getting published will bring you to a sad realization. And the realization is that there is no actual "it" just around the corner that's going to change who you are and how fantastic your life is. Publishing a novel won't do it, nor will all the fame and fortune in the literary world. (And I'm guessing here based on a tiny, tiny taste.) Nothing does that. So you might as well get right with yourself as you are.
This is one of the many secret they don't tell you.
But I will tell you, oh rodents, because here I am, living proof that I am still I, still here, still the same with all the same issues and problems.
I find this realization both comforting and depressing. I also know that you will not listen to me until you have gone through the experience yourself. But when you get there, I hope, at least, you'll be a little more prepared for this cold splash of water in the face than I was.
Peace out, for now.