Andrea Maxand's Blog: New Novel in October!, page 3

question

I’m just a few days out from the second anniversary of my dad’s death.

The year after he died was a whirlwind of taking care of the estate, moving from my apartment in Seattle into his old apartment in a nearby town, then setting up his old apartment as my new home. There was no time to grieve, but my body let me know everything was not okay by plaguing me with flare-ups of chronic health problems that hadn’t bothered me for years, as well as introducing a few new ones. Nothing serious, just enough to keep life perpetually irritating and exhausting. Chronic insomnia was in the mix, so I was always tired.

In July last year, I told my boss I needed some time off. I took three weeks without pay, and spent a lot of time sleeping. Finally. Then, just before the one-year anniversary of Dad’s death, I made the decision to go to grad school.

Over the past year, grad school has meant a shift in my schedule. Less time commuting, more time at home, more time to hear myself think. So this summer, two years out from Dad’s death, I’m feeling his loss much more than I did one year out from his death. I have the space inside my head, and in my life, to feel it.

This is the part where I feel compelled to launch into “what I’ve learned since Dad died.” But I don’t know if I’ve learned anything, other than that grief is not something you go through in predictable stages, then “get over.” For me, it comes and goes. I’m enjoying   my current schedule of part-time work and school; personally, I’m much happier than I’ve been in a long time. But the grief is always there, weaving in and out of my life in not always predictable ways.

It’s not only grief, either. Death itself, especially of someone close to you, brings up all these weird questions. My first and most persistent question was: “Where the fuck did he go?”

There was a time in my life when I thought I had this question answered. For awhile, I tried to be a Christian. When I was trying to do the Christian thing, I believed God took people to “be with Him” after they died, which meant their spirits lived on in the presence of God’s love. I was never able to conceive of “heaven” as a physical place. I thought of it as a realm where there was just love, and like: no bullshit.

Of course in Christian circles there was a lot of talk about who might go to heaven and who would be doomed to hell, but I was never really able to believe in hell, even though I was surrounded by people who did. I figured God would take the necessary time with everyone. That God, being Omni-everything, had a command of time that encompassed before, inside, and after an individual’s mortal life span. I believed if God truly loved the people he created, God would bring everyone around eventually. This belief gave me a lot of comfort for many years.

Dad didn’t believe any of this. Dad believed in nature. He believed that when you die, you become fertilizer, so to speak, and that this is as it should be. Near the end, when the hospital chaplain came around to Dad’s bedside to ask if he needed prayer, I was able to say, with complete confidence: “No, I don’t think he’d like that.”

So when Dad died, I found myself wondering: which one of us was right? And, by this time, my own belief had already faded. It continues to fade, not because anyone has “turned me off” to Christianity, but because, the older I get, the more absurd (and often cruel) it seems.

Still. I saw that moment, the moment I had before only read about in books (or only experienced with pets, the moment they were put to sleep.) I was sitting in the room with Dad when he went. He’d had a massive stroke, he was unresponsive, and the doctors expected him to die. They just weren’t sure when it would happen. Dad had signed a “do not resuscitate” order. It had been his wish, if he were in this state, to be allowed to die. He was terminally ill; he’d been managing it well for years, but had gone into rapid decline over the past month. He did not want to be kept alive in a hospital or a nursing facility, spending his last months unable to take care of himself.

So I was there in the hospital, waiting. Waiting for that moment. And when it came, I watched Dad stop breathing. I saw how one minute, a person is there, and the next minute, as they stop breathing, they just aren’t. The essence of whoever Dad was–that was just gone. His body was there, but he was gone. And despite the fact that I have a hard time believing in God these days, I have just as hard a time believing that there wasn’t a soul? a spirit? a something that was my dad. A something that was there, when he was breathing, and that was no longer there, when he stopped. And I can’t shake the feeling that the essence of Dad must have gone somewhere. That he must exist somewhere.

If he were here right now, Dad would say this feeling I have is complete bullshit. And all I know is that I miss him like hell.

happy?

Here’s my problem with writing romance. The book I’m currently working on I wrote to find out if I could write a romance. I don’t know if I’ve succeeded in writing a “good” romance or not, but as I rewrite and edit, I find I’m increasingly disturbed by the idea of the happy ending.

I read romances myself. I’m pretty picky about the authors I like, but when I do find a romance author I like, I read everything they’ve written. When I like the author I enjoy the genre, and part of the reason I enjoy the genre is because I know a happy ending is waiting for me when I finish a romance. A happy ending is not necessarily an easy thing to do well; to be satisfying, a happy ending has to seem possible and realistic, or at least make sense in terms of how the book is laid out.

But with my own writing, I’m having trouble with the idea of the happy ending. Maybe it’s my own life. A lot of happy endings in romance, if you think about it, involve not just a happy couple, but a couple becoming part of a certain social setup: people who get married, have kids, and live a middle class life. (Unless you’re reading in the billionaire romance subgenre, of course. Then it’s all about finding that oligarch with a heart of gold.)  I grew up as a middle class kid. My own parents’ happy ending (marriage, with child) ended in divorce. But beyond that: I’m not married, and I’ve always been mostly averse to the idea. I could speculate about the reasons why I’m not married, and I could also think of all the mean things a person judging me from the outside might say about why I’m not married. But by and large I’m happy the way I am. (If you don’t believe me, that’s fine; I can’t convince you so I won’t try.)

As a non-married person, it seems the people I meet and make friends with are also people who are not traditionally coupled. Single moms, or women who married late and aren’t going to have kids, or odd ducks like me. When I think about writing a romance, I’m asking myself: why is this happy couple thing the only working definition of a happy ending? What about me? What about my life? What about the lives of my friends who aren’t socially defined as part of a “happy couple?”

I have always dreaded the idea of being a “literary” writer, as if “literary” is somehow a loftier endeavor than writing genre fiction (in any genre.) Yet it seems the freedom of heading in a more literary direction (or at least not heading in the direction of romance) is that you aren’t tied to a happy ending. Because I’m finding it stifling, having to make a “happy couple” the ultimate aim of the end of a book. Then again, I want this couple I’m writing about to be happy. Then again, I don’t know if I believe in happiness based on a relationship. I believe there are benefits to being in a relationship, and that those things can bring people in the relationship happiness. But there are other things that bring happiness, too, and those things may or may not be things one finds in a relationship.

I am also troubled by the “happy ending” requirement because I feel it continues to insist–in a sweet, quiet way–that a woman’s ultimate purpose in life is to get married and have children. A lot of women do that, and it’s certainly a natural thing to want and to do. But what if you’re a woman who doesn’t want that? Or what if you’re a woman who does want that, but for one reason or another, never gets that? Somehow, the idea of the “happy ending” seems to exclude any woman who either doesn’t want a more conventional relationship, or who wants one, but can’t find one.

The “happy ending” makes me feel like I shouldn’t be happy with my life as it is. The “happy ending” makes me feel as if it somehow excludes my friends who are single moms, as if their lives won’t be worthwhile or complete until they find the “right man” and can officially declare themselves happy.

I do like writing about the initial attraction between people. It’s fun. Writing about sex is something else. There are a lot of opinions out there regarding how people ought to write about sex. I think they’re all bullshit. Writing about sex, like sex itself, is not a one-size-fits-all endeavor. I gave the first complete rough draft of my book to a number of different readers. For the parts that involved sex, I got reactions ranging from not liking it much to “this is steamy!” I know I like a variety of ways other authors write sex scenes, and I definitely know when I don’t like an author’s approach to sex writing. It’s a subjective thing. And huge case in point: I read the Fifty Shades books and cringed through every sex scene. But E.L. James had a ton of success with that series. So, obviously, a lot of people liked the way James wrote about sex in the books.

I think what I’m discovering is the initial hook that gets me excited to write about a couple opens up a world of discovery that asks to not be constrained by a particular type of ending. I love the hook and I love the discovery. I love exploring what draws people together and what pushes them apart. I don’t love feeling obligated to create a happy couple. I don’t really believe in happy couples. I believe there are people who know how to keep a partnered relationship together and to stay happy within it. But the whole idea of a happy couple in a complex world where people themselves are just as complex is perhaps not something I can do.

So I’m not sure where that leaves my book. I guess I’ll find out.

 

 

book report

So I’m trying to finish editing this book thing I wrote. It’s fun, and also frustrating. It’s fun because I love to write. It’s frustrating because I already know it’s not the ultimate (or even penultimate) book I would like to write. It’s just the first one I’ve managed to finish.

Talking about making music or books or whatever I figure must not be very interesting for other people to read about, but I have a need to get my thoughts out about it. So here goes.

I’m caught between thinking that I need to just get the book out there (I’ve planned to self-publish) and wanting to not skimp making it (such as it is) the best it can be. The problem is, of course, that you can edit, tweak, and make improvements forever.

The current editing space I’m in is incomplete; I need to finish this round of edits. But what about after that? Set it aside for another month then go at it again? How do I decide when to stop?

When I played music, the finishing of an album had the same dynamic, except that (this was back in the old days of making music) I was paying for studio time, and I had to take time off work to go to a studio. I had limited funds, so there was a need to finish recording within a certain time frame. Maybe I would have liked to keep tweaking and improving my records, but I simply did not have that luxury. Beyond that, I wanted to get the records out so I could book live shows based on them; playing live shows was as much a part of making music as making a recording. (In fact playing live is what I miss the most. I really do need to find a silly open mic somewhere so I can sing at people.)

But now here I am with a word processing file on my computer. There’s no time limit imposed by finances or my work schedule. Just the time limit of looming DEATH (not to be morbid, but at some point we all die, and at that point, all the things we had meant to do with our lives can no longer be realized. Then it truly is too late.) People who are famous and have money behind them might go on book tours, but I won’t be doing that with this book. (I also have a hunch I would hate doing a book tour; it’s promotion, not part of the art. I always sucked at promotion.) So there’s no “live show” component driving me to finish this book either.

So that’s it, I guess. Goddamn I used a lot of semicolons in this post.

 

 

 

parades

I hate parades.

I remember being excited to see my first parade as a kid. I’m not sure how old I was; I was probably somewhere close to five, though I may have been younger. I don’t recall specifics but I know I hated the noise and the crowds. The parade was a disapointment. I had expected to be enchanted; instead, I got a headache.

I’m thinking about parades because I’m trying to decide whether to attend today’s parade in this small-ish town I’ve moved to; the town I essentially grew up in (though truly, I grew up on its outskirts.) My dad moved into the town itself in 1991 and, not quite two years ago, he died here. After he died, I moved to town and took over Dad’s old apartment. I’m probably here to reconnect with some part of myself before I move on to the “next chapter” as they say. Or maybe I’ll stay here. Who knows.

I hate parades. But there is a parade today, and I feel like I ought to go. The woman who sometimes delivers my groceries told me I should go to the parade. When things like that happen I wonder why I’m living in a small town, since I’m the kind of person who prefers anonymity. People get to know you, and they start expecting you to do things like show up at parades. (That’s a good thing, mostly. It’s just uncomfortable if you’re an introvert.)

This is also the town where our family celebrated the bicentennial in 1976. I was definitely five years old then.

So was it here in town where I saw that first parade and was so disillusioned? I can’t say for sure. However, I know we were here that July 4th evening, hanging out with other families on the play field of an old school, waiting for darkness and for fireworks. One end of the field had a short hill, and I rolled down the hill with other kids to pass the time. We all got grass-stains on our clothes. As the daylight started to wane, some of the kids lit up sparklers. Not me though. Dad did not like to buy fireworks. With fascination, and a good deal of envy, I watched the other kids wave their gold-fired sparklers around.

I had to ask my parents what “bicentennial” meant, and they told me it meant the United States had been a country for two-hundred years. It sounded like such a long time. I sat there in the gathering dark thinking about the enormity of two hundred whole years.

Then it was time for the show. It was probably a standard fireworks show for 1976, and since it was 1976, likely not as impressive as any fireworks display you might see today. But I still think of those splashes of red, white, and blue in the sky as the most beautiful display of fireworks I have ever seen.

When you get older and study even a little history, you realize how short two-hundred years really is. Other national identities have existed for much longer. There are entire empires that have appeared, hung around for at least five hundred years, then disappeared from the face of the Earth forever. Two hundred years is a long time if you’re five. In the context of history, it’s arguably not even enough time for a civilization to establish itself.

Today, our president plans to have a military parade. He’s calling it a “Salute to America.” Maybe he thinks of this as patriotism, or at least finds it expedient to define it as such. I suppose there are people who agree with him. I’m not one of them, though.

I’m not sure what patriotism is, but I know that today, I’m free to choose to go or not go to this parade in town. I’m not required to show up and demonstrate my loyalty to any regime. If I want to put up with the crowds and the noise, I can. And if I want to stay home and dance around my living room to disco music, I can do that, too. My neighbors might think that’s weird, but as of right now: no one is going to come arrest me if I don’t attend the parade today. It might seem like a small thing, but I am deeply grateful for that.

In general, my memories of Fourth of July past are a jumble of pleasure, disappointment, and fear of carelessly set fires. The home we lived in before my parents divorced had a deck that wrapped around two sides of the house. It was made of cedar and smelled great on hot days. It was also extremely flammable. So if it did not rain on the Fourth of July, my dad would hose down the deck, gallons and gallons of water to protect the cedar from flying bottle rockets. Was it necessary? I don’t know. But that’s what Dad did. (Fourth of July 2017, the last year I lived in Seattle, fireworks did set a house in my neighborhood on fire. So maybe Dad was onto something.)

I have inherited my Dad’s fear of fire cause by negligence, his ambivalence about flag-waving patriotism, and his deep devotion to the principles that allow such ambivalence to exist in the open. Dad loved to call out hypocrisy every time he saw it, but he also understood this: only a society that maintains respect for freedom of speech allows its citizens to complain out loud and in public. If you can’t name a problem, you can’t begin to approach solving it. The freedom to disagree with the status quo is a precious thing. As disillusioned as I have been with my country throughout my life, I have always held on to the fact that we at least have the right to complain, to ask questions, and to imagine better solutions to our problems.

I hope that never changes.

 

 

 

pre pre-blog shift

I’m wondering if I’m going to end up turning this into my “writer’s blog” when I finally self-publish my first novel. I’ve decided on the self-publishing route, at least to start. I have a story I need to tell, but I’m not sure how good it is. I also believe you learn to get better at things by trying them out, and possibly, failing. Self-publishing seems like a good way to get my feet wet as a published writer.

Before I get all maudlin and precious about having a “story I need to tell” I should say that I’ve been trying to write such stories for years now. I’ve started so many novels and finished a couple, but I’ve never been truly serious about any of them. With this one, I decided to see if I could write to a genre: romance. Whether I’ve been successful doing that, or not, once I had set my mind to that goal, the story I wanted to tell emerged. I don’t know if it’s a good story, but it’s the story on my mind right now. Right now, I have the first version of that story out to beta readers, in part to figure out if what I’m trying to say is communicating itself, even a little, to other human beings. Given some early feedback, I have a hunch I’m going to have some significant work to do before I publish this first book thing. However, it’s also probably not going to be perfect. At some point, I’m just going to have to let go of it.

And who cares? In a sense, none of this matters. I’m just another person trying to write. Our numbers are legion. So I guess it matters only in the sense of deciding to commit to making something, finishing it, and trying to find an audience. In the sense of giving a shit, even if giving a shit doesn’t bring fame (or even a living, which has always been my number one concern.)

People who write stories make my life more bearable and interesting. I’m just trying to join their ranks.

drunken rustic rum bread

I made a rum cake last night. Or rather, I made a loaf pound cake with rum in the batter, and then I drowned the cake in rum glaze. Rum cake was a thing we made at home irregularly during the Christmas season when I was a kid. But every year at Christmas, we had homemade egg nogg with rum in it. Ever since, rum flavored food and drinks have tasted like Christmas to me.

As a kid, I was introduced to Christmas as a winter holiday, not a religious holiday. For several years, I enjoyed advent calendars without even knowing what “Advent” was. Most of the advent calendars my parents purchased for me were woodland creature-themed, so for a long time, I thought the word “advent” had some vague association to trees and animals. So when I talk about Christmas, here, it’s not in a religious sense, nor am I implying that Christmas is the only holiday people celebrate this time of year. It isn’t. However, it’s the holiday I grew up celebrating, and it’s a holiday I think about quite a bit during December. So I’m going to write about it.

I’ve been in search of a Christmas-y feeling this year, in earnest. Not a particular religious definition of the holiday, but that “magic” feeling I truly used to feel at Christmas-time when I was a kid. It was something I sensed even though, when I was young, I was too secular to know that the word “Christ” was contained within “Christmas.” (I just thought it was a funky spelling, and writing out the word “Christmas” was another chance to demonstrate my ability to memorize strangely spelled words. Two-time elementary school spelling bee champ, right here.) For me, “Jesus” and “the magic Christmas feeling” were not synonymous.

So the “magic” feeling was not about religion. It was also not about getting presents, though of course, like all kids, I loved presents. The magic was something not quite definable. It was in the shine of colored lights on a Christmas tree in a dark room, reflecting off the wrapped presents under the tree. It was in good smells coming from the kitchen. It was in the anticipation of waiting for once-a-year special Christmas programs to broadcast on television – in a time before digital streaming or even VCRs – so if you didn’t catch the program when it was on TV, you missed it. It was in the crazy idea that a fat man in a red suit might fly through the sky in a sleigh with a team of airborne reindeer. An idea of Santa that appealed not because of crass commercialism, but because of the idea’s impossibility.

The magic of Santa was in the willing suspension of disbelief that made it possible to buy into this flying red-suited fat dude and his reindeer, landing on the roof of your own home, squeezing down your chimney, actually reading the note and eating the cookies you left for him. Sure, he left gifts, too, and that was of course a benefit. But it was the whole crazy idea of Santa’s existence that I loved most – and it was the hardest thing to give up when I grew too old to believe in Santa. I still got the same allotment of presents when the gift tags said “From Mom & Dad” instead of “From Santa.” But I lost the magic. I could no longer swear that I’d heard the reindeer on the roof, the tinkling sound of the bells on the sleigh, and Santa thumping out of the chimney and into our living room. Life acquired a certain sadness when I could no longer hear those things.

There are myriad ways that adults are instructed to observe the Christmas season, usually involving the execution of some practical action. Practical action is good. But I think it’s also okay to want that “magic” feeling, even if you understand the feeling is no guarantee of any particular happy ending. It’s okay to want to feel good. It’s okay to want to celebrate. And, even if I can never go back to believing in Santa again, I think it’s also human to want to believe in the possibility of impossible things.