As I hack my way through the near-impenetrable forest of my new book, I sometimes write ahead. I’m looking for some small piece of the book that will inspire me to get through the springy, head-whacking limbs of the first half. Often, these scenes end up being mere placemarkers, but I like the idea that they’re set in the future waiting for me, like a beacon in the jungle gloom.
My character’s mother died when she was very young. Jolie has no real memories of her, which is fortunate, because her mother was verbally abusive. Her mother suffered from post-partum depression, but the seeds of her mental illness were there before the child was born. Jolie’s father loves his daughter without reservation, and tries to keep her mind off her mother’s anger. A VHS tape of Snow White was the toddler’s constant companion, especially after her mother’s death, and her father painted a rosy picture of Jolie’s babyhood, hoping to replace whatever trauma the child might have suffered with good memories. He might have gone a little overboard:
“She hadn’t done it in years, but suddenly Jolie felt the need to look at her mother. Not the photos on the mantel she walked past every day. They were photographs of a young woman on her wedding day and also on vacation in New Mexico. That woman had pale skin and black hair. She was young and generically pretty. There was a trace of fragility in that beauty, or maybe it only seemed that way, considering what lay in wait for her. The photos were beautiful but one-dimensional, only approximating her mother’s spirit. As a child, whenever she asked her daddy what her mother was really like, he told her she was like Snow White—good and pure and kind and beautiful. Jolie had grown up with the Disney Snow White book and the VHS tape. And so she grew up thinking of her mother as Snow White, even though logically she knew that wasn’t true. It was in the Disney book and on the Disney tape that she experienced the bond with her mother. Everything was entwined with Disney’s Snow White, so that the few glimpses she had of her mother were these: the soft, flawlessly smooth face of Snow White bending down with sweet breath and gentle, luminous eyes, sun and shadow on a white wall behind her. Or being strapped into her stroller by a slender girl in a puffy-sleeved maiden’s dress. It was the Disney character in the sunny kitchen, moving about in a graceful waltz, bluebirds flying to her shoulders.”
Okay, then. Books are long and instant gratification is rare. So sometimes, when I’m inspired, I paste a snippet of my writing into an email for my long-suffering writing buddies, Chilly and MP. (The names are changed to protect the innocent.)
Sometimes MP can be inspired, too. Here’s his version, below:
“As a child, whenever she asked her daddy what her mother was really like, he told her she was like Big Bird—good and pure and kind and beautiful. She had grown up with the Sesame Street TV show and the stuffed animals and the comic books. And so she grew up thinking of her mother as Big Bird, even though logically she knew that wasnʼt true. It was on PBS she experienced the bond with her mother. Everything was entwined with Jim Henson’s Big Bird, so that the few glimpses she had of her mother were these: the soft, feathery face of a yellow Muppet bending down with sweet breath and a gentle, luminous beak. Or being strapped into her stroller by a six-foot ostrichlike creature of ambiguous sexuality. It was Big Bird in the sunny kitchen, moving about in a graceful waltz, Bert and Ernie riding on his or her back.”
This is the respect I get. But I am philosophical. To paraphrase Don Rumsfeld, “You go with the friends you have, not the friends you wished you had.” I only wish I could get this picture out of my mind: Big Bird’s prodigious beak coming down and spearing the baby in the eye.
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