Mad Girl

Like many a good college girl in 1988, I wrote a paper about Sylvia Plath. About one paper, my professor wrote

Marta,
You combine striking images (of your own & from Plath) with some careful assessment of this love-and-hate affair. I appreciate your moving beyond the easy Freudian interpretations of a life, which in its complexity, transcends father/daughter paradigms and clinical stereotypes. You treat her whole life without simplification of it.

How about that? (Have you kept any college papers?)

In 1989, my mother wrote

I know how much you admire Sylvia Plath’s writings, & I naturally worry about you because you’re a creative person starting out. I wonder sometimes if you feel pressured by me–& perhaps your father–to be so “O.K.” & “self-motivating.” As if at times don’t feel lost or unsure or just plain scared–of the future, of yourself. If I have nothing else to offer you, it would be to tell you to be yourself & forget about what I want or think of you.

Still, now, my head spins like this

Oh! I’m done with this story, I like this story I’ve written. Wait. Is it done? Do I like it because I’m a delusional egomaniac or is it good? Maybe I think it’s bad because I’m insecure and can’t judge my own work. I’ll have someone else read it. But maybe I’m just looking for compliments. No. I want criticism. But what if they say my story is terrible? Maybe they’ll think I’m crazy for thinking I can write anything–what she thinks this is good? But what if they say something nice? Are they being nice? And am I manipulating people into saying nice things? Maybe I’m sabotaging myself? Aren’t I smart enough to figure this out for myself? Maybe I’m not done with this story at all? But maybe I’ll edit the life out. Maybe it is a mess. Why doesn’t…

What is it you are waiting to hear to have faith in yourself and what you can do?

Pay What You Owe

October 18, 1984

Dear Marta,

I just talked with your grandmother over the telephone, so let’s get the unpleasant business out of the way. She tells me that she paid part of the doctor’s bill for your examination of your ankle. How is that? Did I not give you $150. in cash? Please pay the amount you owe her and send me the bill as I requested.

Not only have you been dishonest (and I assume that is why you haven’t written), but you added further fuel to the list of grievances my mother has against me. She thought you had sent me the bill &, therefore, she thought I was being irresponsible and not paying her what I owed her.

I asked her t speak to you about it, and you will give her the money. If she says you don’t have to, you will say that you apologize & that you must give her what is due. If you don’t have the money now, then you will pay her as you can. I’m sure this matter can be cleared up by Thanksgiving.

Let’s start right now by you writing me a letter about this matter. I think you owe me an apology and an explanation. I love you a lot; I love you as much as there can be.

Your mother

I have no memory of this. Well, I remember hurting my ankle because I hadn’t hurt my ankle at all. I did my best to fall down a flight of stairs at school so that I wouldn’t have to dress out at gym. Since I didn’t go shopping for nice clothes, wear make-up, go out with friends, or smoke, I’ve no idea why I would’ve kept the money.

I don’t want to think of myself as a thief, but I had lied about the ankle, so who knows what my 15-year-old self was thinking. (This letter is dated 4 days after my 15th birthday.)

But this isn’t a side of myself I like to know.

Sometimes I want to know what is wrong with my writing. Where do I fail as a writer. No 15-year-old is perfect and neither is any writer. But I’ve hesitated to ask people what I’ve done wrong. What if these flaws are permanent? What if I’m unable to fix them? What if these flaws are what will always be in the way of publication?

Then again, isn’t painful criticism part of the price of being a better writer?

If people were perfect, would we have fiction?

On February 6, 1989, my mother wrote

It has occurred to me that much of what would go to build your reservoir you will draw on as a writer are things, have been things, that it might trouble you to write knowing I–or your dad or your grandmother–might read. There’s probably nothing you could write that would punish me more than my own self-flagellation–I was in a mental ward after you were born in part for what I thought were my failures. If you don’t want me to read what you write, I’ll give you my word. I’ll read only what you personally place in my hands. But don’t stifle yourself or draw back because of what I might do or think. We all have the right to suffer our own consequences, and you have the absolute right to be what what you are.

I was 20 then. She was 45 and wouldn’t need to worry about her word as she died that year.

On October 11, 1983, she wrote

When I took you to your father’s, your dad and I, & then you, had a talk about visitation, if you remember. The agreement was that visitation is up to you, and your father will help you by seeing you get here. I understand why you have avoided being alone with me, and why you tried to manipulate me into seeing you outside of my home. It is always difficult to face people you’ve hurt or lied to.

I have been hoping you would have the courage to face yourself, and me, but that is not characteristic of people your age. There are so many things you need to understand about yourself, mostly that you’ve done the very usual things kids do. Your behavior has been normal and ordinary, although immature. Even your ability to mimic adult behavior is a sign of immaturity–you so needed to bring about what you wanted, no matter what happened or who got hurt. You have nothing to feel guilty about; you do have things to change in the way you act towards others.

I was 14 when she wrote that (though my 15th birthday was 3 days later).

Taking slices of these letters out of their time is not really fair. I could add the part where she writes, “…in a few years, you’ll find it easier to deal with reality and won’t fantasize so much about how you want things to be. Come see me when you’re ready; I love you.”

Maybe that’s why I write fiction. I can manipulate and fantasize and be praised for my efforts.

Today, I talked to my students about how they choose what to include in a story or any writing at all. I asked them to think about what they would write if they wrote about their parents–and what they wouldn’t write. My students typically tell me how wonderful their parents are in every way, and they looked startled at the news I suspected otherwise. I hope otherwise. (There are only so many times I want to read that someone’s father worked hard and supported the family and that their mother is kind and does everything for her children. Am I bad to be annoyed by these virtuous souls?)

Of course, I want people to like me, to like my mother, and to like my main characters. But don’t perfect people make you crazy? But then again, what flaws are okay to reveal?

What are the flaws of your favorite fictional characters?

Letters from the Dead

Don’t speak ill of the dead. Do you follow this rule?

A while ago, I decided to write a few posts using letters I’ve received from different people over the years. I went looking for the letters. Most I found. The letters from my mother I didn’t. Hours passed as I tore through boxes looking. A few boxes I dug through five times.

Friends consoled me. You’ll find them. I’ll pray for you to find them. One friend–the one friend who knew my mother–said, “Maybe you’re not supposed to find them. Maybe there’s something in them you’re not ready to hear.”

Twenty years after my mom’s death and this may well be true. Some of the letters are comforting to read. Others I put away after I read them the first time and was afraid to ever look at them again. But I’m not 15 anymore. What made me cry then, may not make me cry now. Who’s to say my memory is true?

My husband found the box of letters under a pile of suitcases in back of the closet. Now I can read them. I’m glad I found them but not sure I want to read them. The ultimate rejection letters.

You know that feeling when you look into the mailbox and see your SASE staring back at you? I’m so tired of reading, “We wish you the best but we don’t like what you’ve done.”

That’s what I signed up for, isn’t it?

Box the life right out of me.

when we moved from upstairs to downstairs

“That’s all we are in the end. A pile of boxes.”

That’s a line from the 8th episode of Torchwood. The team has to go through the belongings of a dead colleague. This came to mind this week as my husband and I got ready for new carpet.

Everything had to come off the floor. The closets wouldn’t work as everything on the closet floors had to go up too. We filled the bathroom with shelves and loaded the shelves. On the patio we pushed our trunk, our dresser on top of that and our son’s dresser on top of that. More shelves. Stools. Lamp. Boxes and boxes of books. Chair, desk and sofa on its side in the kitchen. The main table and our bed outside.

Then it all had to go back.

You can spend years writing a book. Find an agent. Get published. Be acclaimed! And your book is still going to end up with dust bits clinging to the top of the pages and pushed into a box. Books I love go on shelves where I can see them (instead of the out-of-the-way bottom corner shelf). Maybe that is the best you should hope for. A book that someone takes out of the box when they move and puts on the shelf everyone will see.

No respect for you, missy. None at all.

I’m in the midst of an art marathon, but I read this article the other day and it has been swirling in my head since. The article on why science-fiction (and I’ll toss fantasy into the mix) writers can’t win respect (or literary prizes). And I hate to cast even the slightest negative shadow over Margaret Atwood, who I adore and respect for miles, but the article does seem to have a point.

Now can I give up my hope for the literary label?

Culprit Caught

The poet came to our school and took us for a nature walk. He showed us leaves that we could pluck from plants along the lake’s edge and eat. Back in the classroom he sat us down and read his poetry. The teacher told us to write haiku too. She picked her favorites and gave them to the local paper (click on the image to read).

For the first time, my name in print.

Was this to blame for infecting me with pipe dreams? Was this what threw pies in sky that distracted me from practical work? Was this the first step to forgetting to keep my feet on the ground?

Probably not. But it sure was exciting.

What were your writing experiences in school? Did school inspire your writing dream or hold it back?

something scary this way comes

at work

Today begins spring break. In my neck of the woods anyway. When the break is over, I’ll go back to school, but only for two days a week. With my new free-from-paying-work time, I’m supposed to make something of myself. Write. Make art. Make a mistake?

I’m excited about the time. Worried that I should be in class come Monday morning.

a few words of advice

Marta,
…First, now that you tell me I guess I did hurt you pretty much, you didn’t really hurt me, for say, but you embarassed the hell out of me. … Marta, your hair is looks about the same everyday long and blah! And your face, well, you really do need make-up. …some of the things that you wear have been out of date for some decades now! like your scarfs and, gee whiz, just because you are tall doesn’t mean that you have to wear those long vulgar shirts in an assortment of putrid colours! And gosh, a young lady shouldn’t wear her father’s shirts, at least not to school! … For heaven’s sake don’t ever hide your personality (albeit, it could use a lot of changes). … And I never blamed you for what S. did I just made you think I did, it was sort of my way of adding extra torment to your life! … Now, Marta, if you distrust every man just because I do you wrong you are the stupidiest Bitch I every met! … Marta I do want you to know that I don’t hate you, it’s just that I’ve lost all feeling for you. I feel the same way about you as I would towards any other stranger. …I don’t need to be reminded of all we meant to each other, I still remember!

I’ve been looking for letters from my mom. I found this letter instead. The young man who wrote it had been my best friend. He knew everything about me.

9th grade

Being afraid to put your work out into the world to face rejection seems silly. Rejection is going to come in your life one way or another. It isn’t as if an agent is going to point out all your flaws. She just isn’t going to take on your story. Aren’t there other people who can hurt you more?

I’m about to go from working four days a week to working two days a week. Those two new days off I’ll be writing, making art, and sending queries, short stories, whatever, out for rejection. I’ll make less money. I may fail. I may end up not feeling like the stupidest.

But I can take it, right?

This letter probably should be thrown away. But something about the written word, even hatefully written ones, that keeps me holding on to it. So. What is the worst rejection letter you’ve received? And do you keep your rejections or throw them away?

I feel the story right here.

from my dad

The Oscars were on and dad expected me to be in bed. It was 1985. I sat in the dark, the light and volume turned down to almost black and silent, and my ear pressed to the television speaker. I didn’t get caught.

Acting never appealed to me, but storytelling was something else again. I love that feeling in my stomach and chest watching a good story. I’d go home wanting to keep that feeling. I’d like to create that feeling for someone else.

When you watch a good story, where do you feel it?