Talking Down to Myself

-_-_-_-> It pains me to add this blog to my page. I have heard what I would consider to be interesting comments in regard to my "Gingerbread Man" blog (it's just down the list from here you should read it) and I think that discussion and interpretation in regard to writing is a good thing. I also feel strongly that very little fiction should be explained or spoon fed to the reader. When I took literature classes in high school and college there was always a heavy emphasis on interpretation. I understand on some levels the idea behind this and can appreciate that it helped to develop effective and engaged readers.

At the same time it also deeply bothered me. Yes, yes… there are definitely some stories which need or stand up to deep and specifically directed interpretation. The Wizard of Oz as a representation of the struggles between the silver and gold standard in the United States of America and various C.S. Lewis stories with incorporated Christian themes both come immediately to mind. However, I believe that one of the most important parts of any story, written or told, is the part that the person experiencing (reading/hearing) the story brings to it. We all filter the observations that we make of the world around us through our own feelings, thoughts, emotions, and experiences. If you don't know what I'm talking about go back and read something that you read when you were young and see if you don't take different things from it now. If you're still young I guess you'll just have to take my word for it.

I always felt, during those classes, that we were being incredibly arrogant to believe that we were interpreting the writing as the author intended. The teachers would always say "Now, what was so-and-so trying to say here? Or, what did so-and-so mean when they wrote this?" Interpret away, but why do you think that what you take from a given piece of writing has anything to do with the writer's experience? How about… What did this story mean to you or how did you feel when such-and-such happened. How does that compare to the experience of the others in the class. Why are many of these interpretations the same, why some different, and so on. At the moment, and this may change, I feel that writing a story, telling a story, engaging the reader, communicating a point, reading, and interpreting a story are all unique and different experiences. Personally, when writing, I am often trying to engage myself and provide a point to myself which takes into account my own distinctive interpretive paradigm. If you get the same things as a reader that I do when writing, great. If you get something all together different then that's great too. Communication is incredibly imperfect, much like everything else that we do and experience, but that is part of what makes it interesting.

As I said, there have been what I would consider to be some interesting comments (public not on-line) made in regard to this piece of writing. Normally I would not have any interest in explaining what was intended by a piece of writing. I feel that just as it was out of line for us as students to attempt to interpret the author's intention, meaning, and experience in writing, it is equally inappropriate to, as an author, dictate what a reader takes from a piece of writing. There is no right or wrong way to read anything that I write. If you make connections in your mind between a story I write about snow cones, and the life of a Russian soldier during World War II by all means go with it. That said I'm afraid that this particular mediocre piece of short fiction has in light of recent personal events been used as ammunition against friends in order to justify assumptions made and stories told. As a result I am sadly going to explain a few of the thoughts behind this story. I hope that I do not offend anyone and do not in any way intend to direct your interpretation, understanding, or god forbid enjoyment of this particular piece. Only to provide a point of reference as to my thoughts when writing it and hopefully in the process discourage some of the verbal abuse presently being endured by some of my peers.

First of all things that I post to blogs are not refined writing. They are a first draft and not intended to be improved upon. They have not been reworked or struggled over. They have been written in one sitting and then posted. They are really just conversation and contain typos (which one friend loves to point out) and poorly worked out thoughts and feelings.

This particular story was dealing with loss.

THERE WAS NO SEX IN THIS STORY.

The main idea was, at the time of writing that dealing with death is an incredibly personal public struggle. The character in the story has lost her husband. Read lost as he died. In the beginning of the story she wakes from a terrible nightmare. She seems to be having them all of the time and she feels as if she is losing, or has lost control of her emotions and life. She can't stand the pain and confusion of the waking world and she can't control the fear and anguish of her sleep. When she wakes she is dry heaving and drenched with sweat. Trapped in the panic that seems only to be generated upon waking disorientated from a nightmare and struggling to get a handle on what was dream and what is reality.

The dream had to do with death and the husband. She goes to the bathroom and is struggling to put the dreams aside and fully wake. The memories she has of him and their love are so intense that she seems to be losing the ability to clearly define what is memory, what is dream, and what is fantasy. She get's a Coke and goes out to the porch to watch the morning. She has a wedding to attend that evening and everyone she knows will be there. They are all concerned for her. Some out of pure care and some out of morbid curiosity about the troubles she is having, most of them somewhere in between. She knows that they will ask how she is doing. That they will show concern. That they will want to be there for her but she also knows that she just wants to be left alone. That all of the attention and concern focused on her just makes things worse. That she feels like everyone is just waiting for her to break down and cry. She feels the need to put up a good front but feels as if everyone is just waiting for her to crack so they can say how worried they are and how much they love her. So they can look at their friends and say "Poor dear, I can't even imagine what she must be going through. He was so young and just to be gone like that… it really is a shame." After all that is only the right thing to say.

She comes back in for breakfast and manages to distract herself for a moment but it doesn't work long. She tries a shower but ends up remembering showering with him. No sex here either, sorry. Just two people being intimate. Sharing too small a shower stall, with only one shower head, bumping between each other's warm soapy bodies and the cold tile. Again the memories bombard her. She steps back into her fragmented life only to realize she hasn't done laundry in two weeks and has used the last towel the day before. That's about the time she decides she needs a drink. Poor coping mechanism but when you are at wits end…

She walks naked into the kitchen and pours the drink thinking again about the wedding which she is dreading and what to wear. Something short which will show her legs instead of the pain of loss, lack of sleep, tenuous hold she has on the ability to manage her daily life, etc.

Please take what ever you like from the story (you'll find it just down the list from this blog) and do not feel compelled in any way to read it as I have just described it. This was only an attempt to clarify the thoughts I had while writing. There is still plenty of gossip to be told, sorry if I am taking some of the fun out of this part of it. But hey, don't let my explanation stop the stories. The best gossip generally contains only the slightest tiny bit of truth if any at all. Just do me a favor and lay the fuck off my friends.