A song on the radio made me think of some of my favorite fictional characters recently. I love these characters, I really do, but after I lost the stomach for that particular story, I realized more about what the problem was. There was intense conflict, but I lost faith in a palatable resolution. This story and its characters were left lacking. Yes, they were really backed into a corner and I didn't trust that I had what I needed to get them out in a way that would have sat well in my mind. Truth? I got scared. Maybe it's really that simple. I might finish the story one day, but I think I can write something else now. Maybe this is my official 'farewell for now' to this one.
The expected hero of that piece was a man named Paul, with the other main character, Violet, seeming the more challenged of the two. The problem? Paul could barely save himself. Violet seemed to put forth an effort that at least had a chance of facilitating an eventual escape from danger, however precarious, but her situation was just too wrenching. I began to feel the terror and the despair of this situation in myself while writing the story. I couldn't get these two out of their respective, but intertwined messes. That's because Violet's mess was just a little bit too much like one of my own. I hadn't been able get myself out of it, so... how could I get a character out of it? I would be less likely to encounter this same mess today, but if I did, it might go down just the way that it did. Maybe that is what drove me away from the story. The awful realization of the seeming inevitability... Some things can't be changed and it somehow seemed wrong to try to wave my magic pen and make it all go away. I don't know how to do that. I have something inside me that keeps a certain level of integrity in my fiction. I would override that at my own peril. The only choice left was... one I wasn't ready to write.
Note to self: I'm sorry I couldn't save you. I can't change the past. You saw me try, right? My hand went through you like you were smoke. That sort of thing happens in time travel stories that tinker with the laws of physics. There was nothing more I could do for you that you didn't eventually end up doing for yourself. I'm sorry I couldn't write the rest. That doesn't mean I don't care about what happened to you, it means I understand how terrible it really was.
L
Perhaps one day I will acquire the inner tools to sit through the completion of this story. Until then, Paul and Violet, may you rest in peace. Especially you, Violet.
I think I'm ready for a new story.
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3 comments:
New is ok.
New is good.
Rosie.
Yes - new is good!
This post reminds me of a piece of art I saw when in my twenties. It was a black and white photograph of a woman's dainty but worn shoes sitting perfectly lined up at the end of a bed. The shot showed the shoes and the bedroom, which was a bit masculine in design and function.
The photo was captioned, "I Cannot and Will Not Say That She Is Gone. She Is Just Away."
It was so poignant and perfect. Your characters are similar. As you said, not dead, but at rest.
Good luck with the new work!
Hi, Rosie! Yes, I think new is good, too.
Thank you for that, Billie. :-)
I have notes and ideas for something very new. I might try something different as far as the process itself, too. I wonder what would happen if I simply started writing if no characters come to announce themselves on the stage that lives in my mind. Hmmm...
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