Everyone’s Past

I have finished my rough draft of this year’s NaNoWriMo novel, and I started with the first three chapters and notes my mother wrote before she died. The story is about a relationship she had. A couple years ago I made contact with this man from her past and he wrote me a letter about their relationship. It is odd to try and look back on what I experienced and piece together with what my mother and what he told me. These stories do no match up–but that is real life not a novel. I’m trying to make a novel.

So, here is a tiny piece of the letter he wrote me about two years ago. That would be 2008, and I lived with him and my mother from 1981 to 1982 when I was 12 to 13 years old. I took out a few specific references because I am not truly comfortable sharing other people’s words. But to clarify, this fellow taught a college class on death and dying. It was very popular. He was very popular. And anyway, Mom titled her novel The Death Man, so perhaps that gives you an idea of her thoughts when she started her novel. So. Here is what he wrote about finding out about my mother’s death and the years since.

I cried and cried then, and I often do now. About 13 years ago, doing some research for my NDE group that I have in the ——- area (you remember I was the death & dying guy in ——–), I came across a young woman who claimed to be a medium. I’ve seen these people before, and have been absolutely amazed by them. So, I checked her out. Little did I know that she would tell me all about your mother, and that she would “speak for” your mother who was there in the room. I won’t go into all the protocol I use to check veracity, but I can tell you it was as real as I am. But just to be sure, I sent some of the top ——- scientists to her and a top trial attorney to her. They all came back as amazed as I was. ——- (the medium) and I are now very close friends, and she knows when she can talk to me “for” your mother and when it would just floor me with emotion. But she assures me your mother is with me much of the time, and that we will be together again.

Fifty-thousand words and am not sure what this novel I’ve written from all this is really about.

A Letter from the Death Man

my mother photographed by her boyfriend

A lot of time here has been spent on letters from my mother. Well, here is a portion of a letter to her from her ex-boyfriend, the fellow her novel, The Death Man, is based on (and the novel I am trying to finish).

I wish I could have been around for your graduation. I would have invited myself to Tampa to take you out to dinner. Your determination is only one facet of the marvelous character I see in you. I can’t tell you how much I value and appreciate (within myself–I just don’t talk to other people much anymore) the fact that you and I had the relationship that we had for so long.

Not so foreboding, is it?

Is it only time travel if you go with your body?

not too long after I stopped living with my mother

So, I’m participating in NaNoWriMo again–to write a novel and to see writing friends. But mostly to write a novel. And this novel is the one my mother started before she passed away. The novel is autobiographical, and to continue the story, I’ve read her letters and spent time thinking about a particular time in her life.

The novel is, you see, about her relationship with a particular man. I lived with her and this individual for five months. They were together–on and off–for years, but I’ve been thinking a lot about those five months when I was in the 8th grade, and I’m realizing how incredibly inexplicable those months were.

Writing scenes placed in that time… well…

I would sit in the living room to eat the food this man had cooked. He cooked massive amounts of food. He’d prepare these casserole dishes. Three dishes–one for each of us. Each one completely full. Each one the length and width of a shoebox. Rectangular. The type of dish you’d use for lasagna.

But I hated his cooking even though I liked him. I got it into my head that I had to eat all of it–it usually included fish, about to spoil or slightly spoiled vegetables (nothing was too be wasted), pasta, and sauce. The first few times I managed to eat every last bite. A few later I’d feel the bile rising in my throat when I picked up my fork. I’d eat a corner of this mix and then stop.

In the end, my mother told me I could cook for myself–though I did not know how to cook. The side of a box taught me how to fix rice, so once I figured out that, I tossed in frozen peas and Spam–or maybe it was canned corn beef. Whatever, it was from a can. Sometimes though, when her boyfriend roasted chicken, I could have that.

I remember believing I wasn’t allowed to just eat whatever might be in his kitchen–though I have no memory of anyone telling me that to be the case. I know I’d make up rules for situations because I was afraid to ask.

My own made-up rules in his house:
Never eat anything without asking permission.
Never set foot in the master bedroom unless specifically invited in.
Never mention the Playboy magazine he kept in the hall bathroom–the bathroom my mother never used.
Never invite a friend over.
Never ask about the holes punched into the walls.
Never ask for a ride anywhere (i.e. no after school anything).
Never get in the way.

I drove my mother crazy.

And I’m trying to write about this time from my mother’s point of view…and the point of view that keeps coming back to me is the fork stuck between the plate and my mouth.

This is not going to be a delicious novel.

Dippy is as dippy does.

On May 6, 1988, my mother wrote this.

[My professor] gave me an A, but he said although I was sometimes brilliant, and never bad, I was often dippy. But he gave me the A for my brilliance.

It is hard for me to imagine my mother ever being dippy. She was silly from time to time, but I don’t see that as the same thing. Sometimes I wonder what my professors thought of me, but that is probably a dippy thing to do.

I can definitely be dippy.

Well, maybe that depends on how you define dippy.

What did your teachers think of you?

Mind Your Manners

When I was 15, my mother wrote me this.

You’re approaching adulthood. Neither boys nor girls automatically know how to behave. Manners will get you through. That’s what social manners are for.

The other night a young woman sharing a table with me burped loudly. She didn’t say excuse me or look around as if someone might have heard. A while later, she burped again. Again without any comment. A few more times she burped and not once did it look as if “excuse me” even crossed her mind.

I found myself annoyed. You should say “excuse me,” I thought. Did she not know any better or did she consciously make a point not to act ladylike? She had a buzz cut and cap. She wore a sweatshirt.

How would I have reacted if she had been a he? I would’ve thought him rude, but I also would’ve found him typical. Ugh. Guys. But for some reason, I expect a girl to know better.

This strikes me as sexist. Low expectations of men and high expectations of women. And I suspect I am old-fashioned. Men should take their hats off inside, no one should slouch, and flip-flops are not for work. And if you burp, say excuse me.

But I wonder what my notions about the way things should be say about my writing. How do biases, pre-conceived ideas, prejudices, and attitudes about girls who burp in public shape your writing? How do you write believable, worthwhile characters if you’re stuck on the way you want people to be?

Or, in a different direction–watching this aspiring writer across from me burp and not say anything made me wonder how polite a write ought to be. Must a woman writer always act like a lady? Is it even ladylike to write?

I say “excuse me” when I burp, but I’m not sure I’m a lady…