Then Today...

I don't know how many of you read my post last week (Bat-Sh** Crazy...Among Other Things) about how I'm a little bat-sh** crazy. And a fiction writer. I truly think those two go hand-in-hand. Please don't make me name names. Suffice it to say, nearly every book/poem/short story you read in your high school lit class was written by someone a lot like me. Though, given their fame and success, I'd argue they were all probably crazier. I'll have to ask my sister if anyone sane has ever been included any of the Norton Anthologies. I'm honestly curious now.

Anyway, I digress. I'm here today to offer further evidence. I made light in the introduction, but something big happened to me as a writer this morning. Yes, to all you non-writers out there, it's going to make me seem beyond nuts. However, my hope is that, when writers read this, they'll raise their fists in the air and exhale a euphoric, "Yesssssssssssssssssssss!" in my honor. They'll get it. They know I'm not crazy. Well, at least not any crazier than they are.

Last week I listed a couple things that have to come together in order for a novel to get written. I'll abbreviate the lesson here so we can get down to today.

1. There must be trust between the writer and the characters.
2. The characters must be ready to tell their story.
3. The writer must feel confident in her ability to tell the story.

I went on to talk a little about a novel I've been researching and pondering for awhile. I have characters who want me to tell their story. "Only......... It's big, huge really, and I worry constantly that I'm not good enough, that their story is bigger than my ability to write it. They're still around - Anna, Helen, and Eleanor are - so we shall see." I've thought a lot about them over the past week. If I'm honest, they are almost always with me. The past week was no different. Their story swirls around me constantly. I get bits and pieces laid out. And then.....it's like it all just disappears in a fog. I've always know where their story begins. Until this morning, I wasn't sure how it ended. Or why it ended. Now I know.

It's hard for me to explain. One minute I was running along, tangentially thinking about my upcoming water stop and those particular characters. Let me back up (See? This all kind of confusing...). I listen to music while I run. It's a pretty diverse playlist so I've got everything from Pink to Mozart. I also listen to music when I write and research. For example, I have a particular station on Pandora that brings to mind Stella and Maggie. Helen, Anna, and Eleanor also have a soundtrack - "In a Time Lapse", an album by Ludovico Einaudi. Keeping in mind that there's definitely some overlap in my running and writing playlists... This morning a song from the Einaudi album played on my run. As it always does, the song brought to mind Anna, Helen, and Eleanor. For a moment, I was with them, imagining their story. And that's when it happened. 

I've long thought my struggle with their story was about me. See #3 above. It was about my confidence. I questioned my worthiness constantly. There was a reason I could never seem to grasp the entire story and I attributed it to my skill as a writer. What I didn't see - until this morning - was that it wasn't all me. As with any relationship, Anna and I needed time. You see, it's her story to tell. All of it. I assumed that she was ready and that she trusted me - she brought the story to me after all. I simply needed to be ready to tell it. I have seldom been more wrong.

Then today...after two years together - two years of sorting through my doubts and apparently hers, too - we finally met on level ground. On the Lady Bird Lake Hike & Bike trail seven miles into my eleven mile run, Anna spoke her truth. All of it. To me. I gasped, tears burned behind my eyes. I abruptly stopped running, put my hands on my knees, and cried. My tears were born of sadness, but some joyous ones found their way in. Anna trusts me; she really trusts me. And she's ready.

I imagine a conversation between Anna and Helen about me, their writer. 

Helen: Just tell her. You saw what she wrote last week. She's doubting herself. What if she backs out?

Anna: I can't. I've never told anyone.

Helen: You'll have to eventually. You said you trust her.

Anna: I know...

Helen:  Come on. Do it. 

So Anna did. 

And now I know. There's no going back. She'd never told anyone. Except me. I am honored and a little scared, but now I am committed. I will do right by her story and her secret.

Ok, ok.... I know. This is about when I start to seem bat-sh** crazy. Look, I get it. To those of you on the outside, the creative process is a mysterious business. What was her name? And she said what? Like out loud? Oy. Many of you believe Jesus walked on water and rose from the dead. I'm not trying to turn this into a religious debate, but if you can suspend reality and make that stuff a key tenet of your religion, you can toss me a solid and look at me a wee bit less skeptically. 

Personally, I was blown away this morning. I've had a character (a woman named Malin Jonasson) knock on my (figurative) door and ask me to write her in (I did. She's a major plot mover in a novella called Holy Buckets), but this today... It was beyond all imagining. Spooky, unearthly, transcendent, stupefying, wondrous. Like the moment you learn your intuition was right. Or meet someone you know will end up being your greatest love. I'm trying to put the experience into words that the gen-pop can understand, but dammit... It's hard because I don't quite understand it myself. Name something that has literally stopped you in your tracks. That's as close as I can get you. 

For a writer, I spend a lot of time at a loss for words. I wish I could explain it better. This morning, time, space, spirit, and creativity converged. Two women -  a writer and her protagonist -  came together for split second and a truth was revealed. Maybe I am bat-sh** crazy. I damn well could be. But I was there. And I know.

Anna trusts me.