What a bizarre, elongated time this
has been, the last 24 hours. It’s like I have traveled back in time, to the me
that existed before I was a mother, when I lived alone for more than 20 years.
I stayed up late last night watching
the movie The Soloist, about a newspaper reporter who befriends a homeless man
who is a talented musician. I cried at the end. It was
disturbing, but powerful. It should've gotten better reviews. Robert Downey Jr. was superb, and Jamie Foxx deserves an oscar for
his performance.
The story is so realistic. As much as the reporter tries to
help the homeless man, he can’t. He wanted the man to take medication, to live
in a decent place, get on with a “normal” life. What was ironic, of course, was
how clear it was that the reporter was the real person living a solo life, a
disconnected life. The homeless man was surrounded by people, and loved playing
music. He had a sense of peace and purpose the reporter could not fathom.
My father's uncle, Jake, was a binge drinker. Many times when I was small and we lived in Augusta, Dad would go get Jake from a police station or bar, and he would dry out at our house. Mother's rule was he was never allowed around me and Bruce while drunk. Dad tried to help him, but Jake always took off, not to be heard from for months, then he would turn up after a week-long bender and have to sober up. The homeless man in the movie reminded me of Jake, although I don't think Jake was mentally ill. when he was sober he was delightful. I loved him. He was sort of a substitute grandfather to me. He died when I was 8.
Once when my parents had invited Dad's boss for dinner, Jake came out of the back of the house wearing nothing but a pair of dad's boxer shorts, and introduced himself to everyone at the table, then sat down at Mother's place and ate her steak. He was quite charming. My dad laughed about that for years.
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Today, I have done almost nothing
constructive. I washed a load of towels. I loaded and ran the dishwasher. That
was it. I met my friend Maria for lunch and ate spanakopita, a rare treat. I
love Greek food.
I spent most of the afternoon
reading the newest book by Wally Lamb called The Hour I First Believed. It’s
not his best book. It needed to be cut drastically, as he tends to write 10,000
words when 100 would do. To be fair, however, Lamb’s books are always like
diving into little worlds, places where fascinating things happen. It has set
me to thinking.
I am pondering whether to try and
keep writing, or not. I don't really have time. My kids need me. My mother needs me. I have to juggle so
many balls in the air. Can I find time to write anything decent? Adopting
Alesia would be a much better book if I could take six months and smooth out
the rough places, make it really quality prose. It’s too flawed, I feel
strongly. Well-intentioned stories are not snatched up by publishers. Something
has to be very well-written and unique to be really marketable to a wide
audience, these days. That’s what one potential agent told me in response to an
inquiry.
In re-reading my manuscript about
Michael’s adoption, I realized I spend a lot of time talking about details like
what I had for breakfast, and the snow, and the other Americans I met. The real
story, the essence of my quest to get my son, is probably about 30 pages, not
even book length. It’s just the tip of the iceberg, hardly indicative of the
relationship I have with Michael now.
Lamb’s book causes me to dwell on my
defects as a writer. I do not labor over words, and sculpt them beautifully and
masterfully, like a real writer does. I simply tell a story in the vernacular.
I cannot spin out lovely prose. I cannot write about fascinating twists and
turns that pique the reader’s interest.
I have one other manuscript that I
could revise and put out there, but it’s about my career as a paralegal. It’s a
humorous memoir. I’ve let a couple of close friends read it and they thought it
was funny. Who else would want to read it, though? It’s like the book my father
used to try and write about his banking career. What could be more boring than
reading about banking or the legal professional? Accounting?
I feel like my life is stalled. I am
standing on a corner, looking both ways down the street, and I can’t make my
feet move. I am rooted to the spot. I do not know how to push my life in
another direction. I only know how to hold on and survive. I do not want to be
some wacky woman in her 50’s still chasing an impossible dream of being a
writer.
When I spend too much time alone my
inner monologue gets pretty wacky. If you’ve read this far, don’t worry, I’m
not depressed or anything. I just have a lot of time to think at the moment,
which is a rare gift. The kids return tomorrow night and then I can stay busy
again, and not think so much about the what ifs.
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