Читать книгу Rewrite Your Life - Jessica Lourey - Страница 20

Like every other part of the learning-to-rewrite-your-life process, I stumbled upon the importance of this know-yourself-before-you-write purely by accident. At the time, I was searching for a different kind of truth: the reason Jay had chosen suicide. I contacted his ex-fiancée, credit card company, doctor, realtor, coworkers, brother, and went through every scrap of paper he had in storage to dig up answers. It became a full-time job, an obsession. Three months later, when I was beginning to wonder if the truth I was chasing was undiscoverable, I adopted a puppy. Four months in and still no answers in sight, I found myself impractically daydreaming about famous actors coming to save me from my grief. It was usually Matt Damon because he's cute and seems handy but also sometimes Kevin Bacon because I'm a child of the '80s and have eyes. There was even a period when I waited for the first Steve from Blue's Clues to come and rescue me.

This tells you how destroyed I was. It also tells you an uncomfortable much about how I spent my downtime.

When my search for an outer truth dead-ended, I aimed it inward. I had a predisposition to head this direction as I've always been Manson-girl intense about personal accountability, of which self-awareness is a crucial piece. The scariest movies to me were always the ones in which a creature took ownership of another's will. The Blob. Invasion of the Body Snatchers. The first Spy Kids, because in it, secret agents were turned into incoherent thumb creatures. I lose sleep over being blind to my own faults. Like Christopher McCandless' parents. Did you read Into the Wild? That man and woman destroyed their son, and by all accounts, to this day they choose to believe he was simply a free spirit following the wind. There is nothing more horrible to me than accidentally hurting others. It made sense, then, that in the wake of Jay's suicide, I turned over every stone in myself to discover if maybe the why was hidden there.

My wonderful therapist at the time recommended journaling as a way to organize this rigorous self-examination. I demurred for two reasons: (1) At that point in my life, I'd never really journaled and it seemed like a lot of treading word-water, and (2) I'm chickenshit. In fact, that's what I initially called writing behind the veil of fiction: chickenshitography. I still like the name, but the truth you will soon discover (as I did) is that it doesn't really describe the process.

Knowing yourself is no task for a coward.

Writing May Day took the place of journaling for me. I pumped my fears, my insecurities, my need for justice and answers into that novel. The fact that I became self-aware during the writing of it is one of the reasons it's such an uneven book, and also why I recommend you undertake this chapter's writing exercise before you dig into your novel. You'll save yourself time if your compass is pointed true in advance.

Healing yourself, healing others, and creating powerful fiction are not the only reasons to confess to yourself. You'll also discover soon enough—if you don't know it already—that writing novels serves as both a shield and a microscope. That's why it's important to reach a certain level of self-awareness in advance. You don't want to accidentally share an embarrassing secret you meant to conceal or dig deep into a memory you aren't ready to explore. Eventually, of course, you'll examine it all. That's the beauty of writing fiction. You'll peek in your own dark cracks, and it'll feel like playing. But you need a scan of your own internal terrain so you can control the process.

In shorthand: know thyself.

Take the whole of who you are and put it on paper, first in a journal in its undistilled form and then in your novels in its fictionalized shape. Because you know what? All our ugliness, fears, joys, and journeys are more similar than they are different, and when you're honest with yourself, you can be honest with your writing, and when you're honest with your writing, it reverberates. It connects. It makes people say, “I'm not the only one.”

Let me demonstrate by telling you a story.

Several winters back, I was returning from Tae Kwon Do with my kids. We'd moved from the rural house where Jay spoke his last words to a 1940s bungalow in a conservative central Minnesota city. My kids were six and ten.

We used to hit Tae Kwon Do every Tuesday and Thursday, and every Tuesday and Thursday, we returned to our little house in St. Cloud at 8:30 p.m. It was always the same routine except for one Thursday in early March. When we returned home that night, there was a potted begonia resting on our back step. The temperature was hovering around twelve degrees above zero, but that begonia was green-leaved and fresh in its brown paper bag, its tender orange petals silky.

Somebody knew exactly when we were returning home and had timed their flower-leaving accordingly. Five more minutes, and it would have been frozen solid.

My kids thought it was a nice gesture, and I encouraged that. In my head, though, I was thinking: We've recently moved to town. We don't know anyone here. All my friends and family live at least thirty minutes away. No one who drove that far would leave a flower on my back step without a note. Clearly, a serial killer has been tracking me and my babies for weeks, has learned when we come and go, and he's leaving his calling card—the orange begonia—right before he murders us in our sleep.

That night, I slept on the couch nearest the front door holding a knife. It was my chef's knife without the tip, which I had broken off a couple years earlier in a pound of frozen ground turkey that wasn't thawing fast enough. It was the sharpest blade I had, but that's hardly the point, is it?

SOMEBODY LEFT ME A FLOWER, AND IT MADE ME SLEEP WITH A KNIFE.

It wasn't just that once. There's something about having kids that super-revs the power of catastrophic thinking. At that time, I was traveling to conferences and out-of-state signings about a dozen times a year, and I left my kids with my parents. Every time I went, I said the same thing to my mom: “Don't forget you're watching them.”

And she always said the same thing back. “Don't worry. I raised you, remember?”

I might not be her best reference.

I remember how many times she let me walk to the store alone when I was five, or how she encouraged me to miss two weeks of fifth grade because we didn't like the politics of the long-term sub. But I get her point. I survived, and my kids would, too.

Still, when my plane left the ground or my wheels crossed the state line, my catastrophic thinking kicked in. What if my babies were kidnapped? Would I be able to find them? Could I go on living if I didn't? Or if they ended up in the hospital, how long would it take me to get back to them? What do you even think about when you're waiting to get a flight back to your children in a hospital? Should I call and make sure they're okay? Or should I wait until I've been gone five minutes?

Agh.

And don't even get me started on public speaking. You know how people say, “It was an honor just to be nominated?” I mean it. I like staying in the audience. I worry every time I speak in front of a crowd of people I respect that I'll start bleating like a sheep right before my bowels relax.

So there you have it. The true confessions of a catastrophic thinker. I imagine there is a medication for it, but I am certain that the same part of my brain that takes these wicked spirals is the part that allows me to love reading and spinning stories. All it takes is a spark, and I can run with it. (The superstitious part of me is also sure that thinking about all this stuff is protection against it happening. Sorry, author of the The Secret.)

This is My Own Special Blend of crazy™. I know exactly where it lives in my brain, and that's where I go to harvest the humor when I need it in my writing. That connection with my weirdness keeps my work authentic. You have your own unique foibles, and you should be honest about them. You should also mine the mother-loving daylights out of them because that intersection of vulnerability and creativity is where your voice and your fire live.

Don't just assume you know yourself, by the way. We all don our masks, and we do it so often that often we wear them home. In fact, despite my lifetime of worrying and seeking personal authenticity, it was my incredibly uncomfortable Kickstarter campaign in 2014—a request for help in funding the self-publishing of my magical realism novel—that made me realize how much I censor myself in my daily life. I'm not talking about being unkind or insensitive to others. I don't condone either. I'm talking about overthinking everything I say or write for fear of accidentally offending someone, of shaving off my edges so no one is ruffled, of being bland and funny and helpful. None of that serves me, or the people I love, or most importantly to this moment, my writing.

To write well, you must know and be yourself, at least on the page.