Going for the jugular

Well, for some unknown reason I started working on the novel again. Perhaps it is all the Halloween and Dia de los Muertos preparations at my house. My daughter and I made our annual altar to our ancestors, decorated with fall fruits and vegetables, and dried flowers. Perhaps all these notions of transformations, death, and disguises have brought me back to the brink of fiction?

This weekend I wrote two new chapters and connected the dots between several others that had been floating around out of order. I had to go down to the bathroom several times to check the wall for sequence and setting details. It's really strange: much of the story is hard for me to remember and when I reread earlier chapters I almost don't remember writing them. I find the early chapters pretty compelling, but I'm not sure if the voice is consistent throughout. I still find myself struggling and hung up on moving characters through the plot. Yet I find the details very satisfying, like when Eydie traces the hexagonal white tiles on the cool bathroom floor with her fingers.

I finished reading another novel this weekend, which may have been one of the reasons I was inspired to write. It's called Jamesland and it's written by a family friend, Michelle Huneven. Reading it, and knowing what I know about Michelle's life, I feel like I glimpsed some of the secrets of novel writing. Autobiography works its way in and out, creating the tension in the threads that hold the story together. When people who know me well read this book, they will see much that is taken directly from my life. Yet it is entirely fiction and completely imaginary. And I suspect some people will see themselves where they do not exist, and others won't recognize themselves at all. Letterlady says I should tape Carly Simon's song lyric "You're so vain, I bet you think this song is about you" on the screen of my computer so that I won't edit myself for fear of readers' reactions. Writing -- or at least, going for Natalie Goldberg's "jugular" -- requires a degree of fearlessness. Sometimes I feel like I should be wearing a helmet.

Given all that, I'm not at all sure that what I have written is worth much. It may quite possibly be garbage, actually. But that doesn't stop me from loving many of my characters and feeling great pleasure at spending time with them again. It is a strange head space that I find myself occupying these days...