Before I get into this post, I need to take a second to apologize to those bloggers whom I follow. I’ve got a backlog of your updates sitting in my inbox, pestering for my attention, but I want to be able to approach your shared words with a clear headspace, and I haven’t had that, in recent days. I promise, I’m getting there, but it may take me a few extra days, yet.
I try to keep this blog to talking about my writing, as that’s been its purpose since its inception. But, sometimes, life intrudes into my work in confounding ways.I spent the last few days visiting my family in upstate New York, where I grew up.
I don’t hold many feelings of nostalgia for the place itself, perhaps because I haven’t lived “at home” since I went away to university. But, the people still hold significance to me. Understandably so, as they’re my closest relatives. I visit perhaps once or twice a year, and that’s been enough for me, in the past. But, lately, I’ve really come to notice and realize how…well…old my parents are getting.
My mother and father were not typically young parents. My husband’s parents, for example, were married at not much past twenty, and had him when they were still in college. My parents were in their thirties when they had my sister and me. In the pre-Millennial generations, that was old.
Deep down, I’ve always had a concept of mortality. But, faced specifically with my parents‘ mortality has been scary. Especially when discussing wills, deeds, insurance financials, and what happens if one of them “goes” before the other.
Over this last visit, both my mother and father approached the subject rationally with me, and I tried to do the same. Maybe it’s a kind of emotional denial on my part, but I kept thinking, “How would [character X] deal with this situation?” It’s timely and fitting, right now, as I do have a story where this subject – that of a parent’s death – is an integral plot point. It doesn’t really make the issue any easier, though. It just gives me a safe sense of distance.
I’ve written about death in my stories before. I don’t like treating it lightly, because even the most insignificant of deaths – relatively speaking, that is – has an impact on somebody, in fiction just as in real life.
Hmm. Reading over that last sentence just now, I can’t help but think I’m still a bit in denial about the whole process.
Part of the scariness of the prospect is that I’ve always been close to my parents, even though I’ve lived far away. I may not speak to them every week, but I certainly think of them that often, or more. To consider life without them is unsettling. Realistic, and likely unavoidable, but discomfiting nonetheless. Without them, I’d be an orphan.
That sounds silly for an adult woman. The word “orphan” has a connotation of a sooty-faced, Victorian-era street urchin, or a child sitting alone by a window, waiting for a nice couple to come along to adopt them. But, it’s true. Not that I’d be alone if my parents passed away. I have a family of my own, and a sister, cousins, aunts and uncles…. They’re not the same, though.
I’ve always known one of the principle building blocks of good fiction is conflict. It creates tension, builds character. I strive for realistic conflict in my stories. In my life, though? I could do with a little bit less of the stuff.
I’ll try to return this blog to its regularly scheduled programming by next update. Til then, bear with me, okay?