Control

Less than a week out from the release of my debut novel, What Binds Us and it occurs to me that, unlike Miss Janet Jackson, I am not in control. I realize that this sounds like a revelation but it’s not. Not really. I haven’t been in control in years. And I’m fine with that. I’m pretty much content to let people do what they want/feel they need to, especially TSE* and quite often the dogs.

Let me explain to you how our household is set up: it consists of me, TSE and 2 dogs; each person (canine or human) has his own agenda. Coco, our aging Lhasa, is slow, stubborn, independent. She’s a lot like TSE. Toby is clearly more like me, fiercely loyal, loving, easy going and slightly out of control. If anyone is in control it’s Coco. Don’t believe me? Stop by our house at the dogs’ dinner time: there’s an untoward amount of pleading and bribing with cheese, lunchmeat, and chicken because Coco often refuses to eat but she takes a variety of medicines that must be given with food. I’ll do anything to get her to eat so she can take her medicine. All I care about is getting from Point A to Point B. I don’t care how we get there or who’s driving. I just want to get there and be done with it.

I’ve started to wonder why I have so little interest in control. I’m not disengaged or particularly passive, but I am exhausted. Let me explain: I write so I have an active universe of characters whose every move, mood, thought and interaction I control; after that I hardly have the energy to try and control any actual living being, Coco for example.

It’s a heady, powerful feeling this being an author, a writer. You dredge up characters from dreams, from imagination, from nothing and give them life and words, if not breath. With words I can evoke a mood, maybe elicit an emotion: laughter, tears, a nod of agreement. As release day inches closer I know that I will relinquish control of What Binds Us. I created the characters and wrote the story they told to me, a story I controlled to a great extent. But I cannot control the reader’s experience, the reader’s reaction to my story, to my characters. Nor do I want to. I write to make people see, to make them feel, but what they actually see, feel, think is hidden from me. I do, however, want to know what their experience is. And that’s what worries me—that readers won’t share their thoughts. So I’m issuing an open invitation: if you read the book, let me know what you think. Post a comment here or on my Facebook page, or email me.

Thanks.

* TSE = The Spousal Equivalent, aka Stanley