The Scribble Pad
The mental meanderings of a slightly loose screw.
MARCH 09
Tuesday March 31 - Murder! Muuurdeeerrr!
It's that time again, the time every writer hates. Yep - it's rewrite time. You know, you get a letter from your editor with a few helpful suggestions about your work in progress, the execution of which will surely result in greater sales and, even better, more raves from your readership.
Problem is, fulfilling those little change requests also feels like walking barefoot across a field of broken glass.
Murder your darlings. Those of you who know me well know that's practically my anthem. Seek out those words, phrases, scenes, and even characters you've grown to love and cut...them...out.
Some of the time, I do it with a heavy heart. Ooh, what a nice word! What a beautifully crafted sentence! What an absolutely mind-blowing, Nobel-worthy, stop-the-world-and-listen-to-this scene! Whaddaya mean I have to delete it???
But to be honest, most of the time when I take my metaphorical editing scissors in hand, my thoughts are more often along the lines of "Ugh! What a crappy little phrase! What a trite, lazy, hackneyed approach. What a stupid thing to say! Who wrote this crap?" Snip! Snip!
Those are the times when I'm grateful to my editor, and only too happy to follow her advice, because I know that her opinions matter, Like a teaspoon of bitter, yucky vitamins, it might be hard to swallow, but inevitably, it makes my work stronger.
Monday March 23 - Behind a wall of pain
When my father was killed, I remember friends commenting that I was behaving a little "too normally", as though they expected drama, collapse, wailing and tears. I remember at his funeral, two colleagues carefully scrutinising me, and then discussing, right in front of my face, the fact that I was not a complete wreck. "It hasn't sunk in yet", they said to each other, and nodded knowledgably.
Maybe not, but only because of the wall I had thrown up around myself in order to block out the pain. It's the same wall I'm cowering behind now, desperately trying to keep myself from constantly going over in my mind the fact that my grandmother, the most important female influence on my life, is dead.
So I'm hunkered down, laying low, as if cowering from sniper fire, trying not to think about it, trying not to imagine a world in which I can't call her, can't visit, can't rely on her to feel sorry for me if I have a cold. It's a pretty sturdy wall, this wall of pain, and I guess it'll keep me nicely sheltered for the while.
The real problem will be when it all comes crashing down, crumbling under the weight of unshed tears...
Anyway, if you like, you can read the tribute to Mrs. Rosa Hull that I read at her funeral:
I am sure I speak on behalf of my siblings and cousins when I say that whenever my grandmother’s name is mentioned, the first image to come to mind is one of her in her kitchen at 45 Rosslyn Street. Mental pictures of Grandma with her hands buried up to her wrists in sticky dough, making rolls and sweetbread on a Saturday night, which always came with a pot of souse, and, if we were lucky, some boiled corn.
Grandma frying eggs on her pitch-oil stove, eggs floating in an inch of hot oil, with blissful disregard for – or, perhaps, predating knowledge of – the calorific content, not to mention the cholesterol and saturated fat content of her breakfast.
Read the rest of my tribute to Rosa here
Tuesday March 17 _ Impermanence
I don't know if you guys missed me, but I sure missed you. Uncharacteristically, I've not updated my website in about 3 weeks. Mainly because the last thing you need is for an unhinged, depressed author to be wailing and blowing snot all over you.
You see, in the last few weeks, and starting just days after I scattered my father's ashes along the Carnival routes of Port of Spain, I lost both my grandparents. Yes, they were both 94 - as a matter of fact, they were born 3 weeks apart and died 2 weeks apart, proof of shared destiny if there ever was - and yes, it was their time to go.
But for those of us touched by their presence in our lives, it's hard. Frankly, I'm tired of Death knocking on my family's door - 4 close relatives in less than a year is bordering on the bloody ridiculous, if you ask me.
I remember a few days ago, as my grandmother lay dying, I was desperate for something, anything, to take my mind off it. I decided to watch The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, which, as it turned out, wasn't the best choice I could have made. If you've seen it, then you know what I mean. But it did serve the purpose of raising in my mind the issue of impermanence. People come into your life, and then they go. And, eventually, you go.
But I guess, them's the breaks. We will weather this, as other families have. But let me just say that Fred and Rosa Hull, my strong, brave, loving and wonderful grandparents, have touched my life more than anyone ever has, and played the greatest role in forming me into who and what I am, and I will always be grateful to them for that.
Rest in peace.
