While I was writing The Truthful Story, there were times when I was overwhelmed with such immeasurable, deep, sad joy. I felt it in my chest and on my skin. I could smell it and hear it and even taste it. Sometimes, the room around me would fall far away, and I was in this padded cocoon, where I could slip inside my writing—into the old house at Gibson Island. I’d run my hand over the wide banister of the stairs and walk down the slightly slanted hallway floor to the breakfast room with the red table and chairs. I’d sit on the wharf and watch the character of Nannie fishing and the river responding with gentle ripples that cradled the marsh. I could sense her presence even after she drowned. Her lingering laughter and “truthful stories” were mixed in with the melody of Louisa’s voice working hard to stifle the devastating loss of her mother. Sometimes the two of them would almost merge into one. In The Truthful Story, Nannie was based on my grandmother, and Louisa was based on my mother. When I was writing, I was confronted with feelings of losing them both all over again—feelings I thought I’d safely put away.
I didn’t know, though, that such a confusing kind of joy could exist in writing, and I certainly didn’t know that the character of young Genevieve would be its source. Some writers say their character will lead them where they need to go in the story, and for me, that was absolutely true. She was young and scared, and she was sensitive and stubborn. She knew things no one else did, and she took me there and showed me what to do. She also helped me heal.
When The Truthful Story was finished and out there, I missed Genevieve, so I made a plan to put her in my next story. I brought her back. Now, years later, I still find myself with pages and pages of what’s supposed to be that next story, written with crisp, new ideas and surprises, but something is different. Something is wrong. While I was writing off and on, I was getting only bursts of satisfaction and tiny moments of clarity. Genevieve was there, so why wasn’t she taking me where I needed to go?
In the middle of all this, three people came to my rescue over the last month. The first was a dear friend and fellow writer who asked me out for coffee. Having not seen each other for over year didn’t stop us from jumping into some unsettling stuff going on in our writing lives. When I took my turn to share, she listened intently, then looked hard at me and asked, “What are you afraid of?” I was totally shocked by how important that question was, and I didn’t hesitate. I told her I was afraid I wouldn’t feel healing joy ever again.
The second person was my son. When I told him about what I was wrestling with, he shared some important discoveries about his own journey, and we discussed how critical it is to listen to the voice that tells you how to be the best version of yourself and who you are meant to be, and to commit to a course of action that supports that goal. I was once again reminded of Ralph Waldo Emerson’s quote. I used to always say it to my children when they were young. “Trust thyself. Every heart vibrates to that iron string.”
The third person came in a dream. It was my mother. I’d not had a dream about her in many years, and this was a terrible one. She was very mad at me and told me I wasn’t paying attention anymore, but I had no idea what she meant. At the end of the dream, she came to my door, and somehow, I knew she was on the other side and happy again. She didn’t come in. The door stayed closed between us, but she slid a piece of blank paper under it and left.
This morning when I looked again at that second story I’ve been working on, I saw Genevieve on the page, and I suddenly realized why she hasn’t taken me where I need to go. It’s because she doesn’t want to be there. So, I took action, and I closed the door. I put that story away. Then, I took the blank page my mother slipped to me, and I started over. It’s something new, and it’s a story that needs to be told. I’m putting Genevieve back on the page, and I have a feeling she will take charge like she always does.