A: 12/27/02

Work Diary, 12/27/02

Some mornings, when I'm sitting on the porch smoking my cigarette and
hating the dark, I cringe at what I've written. "There seems to be
nothing she won't tell," said one of Margaret Atwood's characters. I'm
beginning to understand what she meant.

Incest, abuse, depression, suicide; the problems of friends and family;
my partner's and my relationship?it's all grist for the mill. (What's
worse, I can't decide if it's guilt bothering me, or the sneaking
suspicion that I don't have a creative bone in my body. The craft of
writing is one thing, but developing your own stories is quite
another.) Are my stories really fulfilling my need to write something
beyond a business letter, or am I - as one friend pointed out - hiding
behind these diaries?

And, really, what else would I write? "Write what you know," say the
writing teachers and books. But what if all you know are other people's
stories? I take my sister's past, for instance, and offer it up to the
public: Here, look at her life. Use it as you will. Aren't you glad it
isn't you?

"Write as if no one's ever going to read what you write" - another
Margaret Atwood character. Like that character, I do disassociate
myself when writing; unlike her, however, I pay for it later.

Naturally, stories must come from somewhere. Would it make any
difference if my novel was based on my life, but I changed the names?
Absurd, really, that publishers include a disclaimer - the one telling
readers that all of the characters are fictitious - on any books.
Surely we readers get glimpses of a writer's Aunt Edna, or alcoholic
brother, or unhappy marriage.

But that's all legal mumbo-jumbo, which writers should leave to the
murky, convoluted publishing world. My point is this: Do we pay homage
to our characters - those based on real people, anyway - by telling the
truth? Or do we wrap those characters in different names, hair colors,
and sexes so nobody can sniff out the real thing?

I opt for the former. If we owe our muses and influences anything, it's
the truth. My goal is to present that delicate balance between the
truth and the reader's suspension of belief, a goal I find impossible
to reach.

By example, here is a character sketch of my cousin:

"She has no stories of her own, instead relying on the tales of people
she's met only once or twice, or maybe never. She speaks with an accent
belonging to a place she's never lived, though it's perfect. Anyone
would be fooled by the sharp twang, the loose drawl. Each Christmas she
stands at the door, eager to show visitors that the music is playing -
music she has chosen - and that dinner is ready. Sometimes she thrusts
a wrapped package into a visitor's hands, before he's had a chance to
say hello or take off his coat. Anyone looking at her feet will hear,
'These are my Christmas shoes.' She's worn those shoes for years - one
day a year, in fact, so that they will last forever. It's not hard to
imagine her dismantled, an arm here, a leg there, and placed in a box
at the end of each season. Eleven or twelve months later, the box will
be taken out of a closet, eliciting remarks that a new box, perhaps one
more sturdy, should be found. With a sigh, someone will begin putting
her back together, fluffing her hair and deciding which sweater she
should wear. The shoes are not a problem, of course, since they are
always the same."

That's the truth, as real as I can make it. And because my cousin is
real, too, I am already cringing, wondering if it's worth it.