Talking in circles

As my sabbatical nears an end, I find myself fielding a number of questions: Did you get a lot done? Are you working on a new book? And the most frightening question of all: What's it about?

If I tended to write novels like The DaVinci Code, I suspect that last question wouldn't pose much of a problem; plot-heavy fiction lends itself to quick synopsis. The kind of fiction I write does not. Perhaps that's because it's literary fiction, more about ideas than action; perhaps that's because I'm a female writer. It doesn't take much research to uncover the reams and reams of narrative theory suggesting that male writers tend toward that familiar inverted checkmark of plot structure (conflict, a moment of crisis, resolution) while women tend toward a more circular, recursive form of storytelling. Many people don't understand that, sometimes, there's a point to talking in circles.

I don't think narrative structure breaks down cleanly along gender lines, though. One of my favorite novels is Evan Connell's Mrs. Bridge, which doesn't have much of a plot. India Bridge gets married, has children, leads the life of a society matron in Kansas City; she grows profoundly bored, questions the purpose of her existence, tries to explain her feelings to her unsympathetic husband; in the end, though, she's right where she started. She hasn't changed at all, because she's had no vocabulary to ask for the changes she wants. Honestly, she can't even imagine what those changes might be. And that's the point of the story. It's not a page-turner, but it's utterly heartbreaking.

When I try to describe my new novel, I feel a bit like Mrs. Bridge: I don't get much of anywhere. I'm just getting a clear sense of where the narrative is headed (another difference between plot-driven fiction and literary fiction: I discover the story as I write it, rather than planning out the story before I begin.) I know it's focused on parenting--specifically, on the difficult process of watching yourself become a smaller and smaller part of your children's lives. It's also about life in the remote regions of Idaho--a life that's often threatened by fire. So it's also about firefighters, and the cost of supporting your family with a physically and psychologically demanding job. And, somehow, it's about Texas, immigration law, and the way that affects families too.

How all these pieces will fall together, I'm not sure. I may well discover that some of the pieces belong to other stories. When I was writing my first novel, I discovered that the ending I'd had firmly in mind throughout the writing process made no sense as I approached the end of the story. I won't be shocked if something similar happens this time around.

The element of surprise might be the most important part of the writing process. If you know where the story is headed, what's the point of writing it? How do you keep yourself from growing as bored as poor Mrs. Bridge, who can see the end of her life from the very beginning? Just knowing that I'm headed toward a discovery leaves every door open, even if I'm going in circles along the way.

Disengaging

So, I've been gone for awhile.

About a month ago, I found out I was going to need to have some surgery. (Nothing life-threatening or even particularly serious, just stuff that had to be done.) I hate going to the doctor and generally don't do it unless I'm on the brink of certain death, though I do try to be vigilant about having my annual exam. Sometimes it happens every other year, instead, though my current doctor says that's okay for a monogamous woman of my age. But this year, I was taken by surprise when my doctor discovered a problem of which I had no knowledge at all.

I don't like surprises. My husband knows that to throw me a surprise party would not be perceived as a thoughtful gesture but, instead, an ambush. So I wasn't happy when I found out that my sabbatical schedule needed to be adjusted to include pre-op visits, surgery, and several weeks of recovery time. My usual response to a surprise of this nature is to just hunker down, disengage from my feelings of shock and get very, very practical. When I found out I needed surgery, I started doing research and spending time with my family; everything else fell by the wayside. When I had my car accident last spring, everyone at the accident site kept giving me this odd look, this "Why is she so calm? She just totaled her car!" look. Because there I was, calmly standing by the side of the road, drinking the coffee I'd salvaged from my totaled car. I cried later, at home--but in the face of surprise, I disengaged.

I'm smart enough to know that life isn't predictable or under anyone's control. I spend a lot of time trying to get my students to understand this--to understand that they will find themselves dealing with situations they can't foresee, can't even imagine, no matter how careful and practical they are. Young people tend to believe that if you find yourself in trouble, it's because you screwed up and deserve to be in trouble. (Or because someone else screwed up, and you're unfairly stuck paying the price of their carelessness. Life isn't fair, they know, but fair is different from out of control.) It takes a certain level of maturity before people understand that, sometimes, stuff just happens. It's possible to develop lung cancer when you've never smoked a cigarette. It's possible to feel perfectly healthy on the day you find out you're not in perfect health.

It's hard to live with that kind of uncertainty. Some people learn to live with it very early on, as a result of serious illness or tragedy, but most young people honestly believe it's possible to control their destinies. That's why young people so often take chances that older people won't; older people have learned that so much is beyond their control, they might as well be cautious when they can.

I know that anything can happen at any moment. Sometimes that knowledge is almost too much to bear; sometimes, just watching my kids walk through the door after school feels like a miracle. But I also know that whatever happens in this life, I'll push through it and get back on track somehow. I'll get through it by disengaging, paring down to the essentials--perhaps for a very long time. Disengaging isn't the same as denial, because denial means refusing to deal with the situation, and I deal with everything, eventually. But only when I'm ready.

I'm dealing with things now, writing this, coming back into the world after some time away.