On Middlesex & Writing

Warning: a great big rambling ahead.
I stopped writing about ten months ago when I was in the middle of reading the most absolutely amazing book, Middlesex. As I marveled at the author's intricate weaving of Greek mythology and modern day, I realized (call me a defeatist if you must!) that most likely I would never write a book of this caliber. I would never come up with such a fascinating and unique storyline as the following of the genetic making of a hermaphrodite along three generations. Thus, what was the point of writing? Who cares anyway if a sub-par fiction story is created or not? Who wants to read anything less than a stellar book? What did I know about the world anyway that would shed insight into another person's life? Do I sound like Eeyore yet? Hmph!

I have to admit: I have been and still am incredibly stunned and saddened by the sudden ennui of an act-verb-passion that I most value in this world: storytelling. I no longer "see" stories as I used to. I feel like I am just moving from one lovely moment in life to another but without reflection. How do I say all this without sounding like a weenie? Life has been marvelous but I am wordless to describe it. Have I become too busy that I no long have the patience to sit down and write a blog let along my little story that I love/ hate so much? What do I need to do to find my voice again?

I find radio incredibly romantic. Some of my favorite moments with Ben is situated with us sitting side by side listening to the radio whether it be music or NPR. New Years night we were driving home from Minnesota and a radio program called The Moth came over the middle-of-nowhere Wisconsin radio waves. The Moth is a storytelling program where people gather by a stage and tell stories in front of a live audience for five minutes. I remember thinking: this kind of thing only really happens in New York City. But low and behold, it came to Chicago.

I needed to go and I knew Stefanie was the perfect person to come with me. We met at Martyrs which is located just north of Wrigleyville and despite the unknown re: the seating/ standing situation, Stefanie and I settled in for an evening of storytelling and a beer. I was hoping for inspiration. Or insight. Or the feel of storytelling. Or something.

Each person that performs in The Moth finds out only thirty seconds before their performance that they are indeed performing. Partially improv, each storyteller shares his/ her story that relates to some overall theme of the evening. There are three teams that judge each story so by the end of the night there is a winner. (And consequently, there is a loser). Think Middlesex. Think my story.

"I think I could do the storytelling part but I wouldn't be able to stand the judgement" I told Stefanie during intermission. And there it was: why I can't write. The judgment. (Smack next to the myth that I sometimes believe that writing is only for narcissists and thus, I am one. I really don't want to be!) I told Stefanie about my Middlesex experience.

She responded with a very wise "You are supposed to read for inspiration, not to compare." True dat, Stef.

I watched a woman take the stage that night. Her story was perfectly crafted. It came full circle and was not judged for it's humor or laugh factor. It required time to craft- reflection & time. It was not spun in a weeks time or even a year. Her story spanned several grueling years only to be perfectly summed up in a five minute period on a stage in front of a few hundred people. Middlesex was written over a ten year period (per the author's interview with Oprah). So what is my problem? A story doesn't have to be written in a day or a year's time line. Let's get back to the heart of the matter: So why does it matter to write? Why does anyone care? What good is fiction anyway?

I write to capture the essence of a song as it plays on my radio while I look at what appears to be the edge of the world. Really, I am only facing Lake Michigan in the middle of the night but the blackness as contrasted to the blinking city skyline and Lake Shore Drive behind me is a desolate as The Bad Lands. I am coming home from dinner with Angela. I am full. I am in love with the city, with the spring breeze that whips through my rolled down windows, with this life, with this song, with my friends. I know no other way to capture this. I need to write it down.

I write to resolve an ending that makes sense when you watch a family rally around their 9 year old son who has brain cancer. I write to see the future as I only capture a moment where son and father lay on one of the therapy mats staring up at the ceiling in silence as though they are star gazing. In one year I want them to truly lay in some grassy field far far away from this therapy gym with Train on the radio.

Maybe one person will read this. Maybe two. I need to learn to write for myself again-- (and Agnes because she is motivating. Hi Agnes). I want to write stories again.