It is significant that some thought my story was about a sweet little boy. I thought it was about motherhood. Let me explain. There is a generation of women who considered themselves ‘mothers’, not “women with children”. They did not consider their menses a curse or defect, or the word “mom” a pejorative, but found purpose and fulfillment in bearing and nurturing life itself. Think then of the crushing loss of purpose when their offspring no longer need them and when they age into their ‘90s, husbands long dead, frail and dependent, families moving on without them – profoundly alone.
The earnest little boy and the context of the letter were intended to misdirect with sweetness, juxtapose with hope, reveal the ultimate tragedy of the old mother’s condition, and intimate through a child’s innocence the awful reality of the woman’s true wish. The P.S. was intended to suggest a melancholy cycle, as the little boy’s mother attentively guides, nurtures and shapes the future in the person of her son, not yet considering the time when he will no longer ‘need’ her. I thought I was being ‘too obvious’ by naming the story after the great grandmother.
All this is meant to illustrate why I think I am often unable to make myself understood: (1) I’m a total anachronism, not at all ‘modern’ in anyway, having a sensibility and worldview of perhaps a century ago; (2) I don’t like to come right out and say what I mean, so I use devices to hide things, and juxtapositions to hint, allude and suggest; (3) I like stillness and quiet; I like attention and contemplation. I see quite clearly that these are all decided liabilities in a thoroughly ‘progressive’ world, distracted by hyper-active texting, dashed-off e-mails, unlimited cell-phoning, and hundreds of TV channels.
In a past ‘lesson’, I was supposed to have learned that writers cannot expect to control the meaning readers take from their stories. I didn’t realize then how disheartening it can be when one’s own writing style is not an effective mode of communication. I’m not saying I’m a good writer; I’m not saying readers are not good readers; I’m saying that my lesson this week is that writing not conducive to being understood is in some measure a failure.
Ah, well, I’m a misfit, out of place and out of time.
I thought it clear. Although I did see the OC's remarks about it before coming here. I was even reminded when Grammy mentioned no one needed her anymore about a past interest who told me that she didn't think I needed her. I wondered if women took being needed much more seriously than men. Or perhaps men need to be needed just as much, but seldom examine that need. Enjoyable story.
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It is significant that some thought my story was about a sweet little boy. I thought it was about motherhood. Let me explain. There is a generation of women who considered themselves ‘mothers’, not “women with children”. They did not consider their menses a curse or defect, or the word “mom” a pejorative, but found purpose and fulfillment in bearing and nurturing life itself. Think then of the crushing loss of purpose when their offspring no longer need them and when they age into their ‘90s, husbands long dead, frail and dependent, families moving on without them – profoundly alone.
The earnest little boy and the context of the letter were intended to misdirect with sweetness, juxtapose with hope, reveal the ultimate tragedy of the old mother’s condition, and intimate through a child’s innocence the awful reality of the woman’s true wish. The P.S. was intended to suggest a melancholy cycle, as the little boy’s mother attentively guides, nurtures and shapes the future in the person of her son, not yet considering the time when he will no longer ‘need’ her. I thought I was being ‘too obvious’ by naming the story after the great grandmother.
All this is meant to illustrate why I think I am often unable to make myself understood: (1) I’m a total anachronism, not at all ‘modern’ in anyway, having a sensibility and worldview of perhaps a century ago; (2) I don’t like to come right out and say what I mean, so I use devices to hide things, and juxtapositions to hint, allude and suggest; (3) I like stillness and quiet; I like attention and contemplation. I see quite clearly that these are all decided liabilities in a thoroughly ‘progressive’ world, distracted by hyper-active texting, dashed-off e-mails, unlimited cell-phoning, and hundreds of TV channels.
In a past ‘lesson’, I was supposed to have learned that writers cannot expect to control the meaning readers take from their stories. I didn’t realize then how disheartening it can be when one’s own writing style is not an effective mode of communication. I’m not saying I’m a good writer; I’m not saying readers are not good readers; I’m saying that my lesson this week is that writing not conducive to being understood is in some measure a failure.
Ah, well, I’m a misfit, out of place and out of time.
I thought it clear. Although I did see the OC's remarks about it before coming here. I was even reminded when Grammy mentioned no one needed her anymore about a past interest who told me that she didn't think I needed her. I wondered if women took being needed much more seriously than men. Or perhaps men need to be needed just as much, but seldom examine that need. Enjoyable story.
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