The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

Max Darkness

"Invalid Entry" 

I attempted to write something last summer which was neither poetry or non-fiction. I got it into my head that I could write an actual novel, a bonafide, three hundred paged, soon to be dog-earred, wildly applauded, much adored book. I dreamed it up while sitting on my deck on a hot, filmy summer afternoon having just drained a glass of Coke and putting down my most favourite recent book 'White Teeth', by Zadie Smith. I was in love with the words of Zadie, felt jealous of them, hated them for their effortless perfection, and let it all it give way for inspiration. I decided I could do it, too. I could write a story which would engage a reader with a bit of poetry and art, as well as a strong plotline. I sat down at my computer and I started typing, and before I knew it, I was up to over eighty-thousand words.

The main character's name was Oona. I've always liked the name, and M. wouldn't consider it when we were pregnant, so in a way, I gave birth on my own without the bother of hemorrhoids or stretch marks. I made her quiet and contemplative, average weight and on the pretty side without being overly so, something I hate in the work of others, that way of making someone extraordinarily attractive which never comes off believable. I wrote about her, her best friend Violet, and a slew of other characters in a story about lost love, new love and a graveyard, and I was intent on finishing it, making it be seen.

What compelled me to write it is as mysterious to me now as it was then. I don't know where it came from, the need to get it out of me, to make the people in my head as real to the reader as they were to me, but the fingers flew, the ideas unfolded like the petals of an evening primrose at dusk. I wrote page after page, feeling a little high with each one, guided by something unseen, something intangible. A muse? No, I don't really subscribe to that kind of thinking. I think the need is always inside, the ability just under the skin. All I needed to get going was for the climate to be just right, for the calm in the air and the quiet songs of the birds in the tree. I picked my moment and I let the walls down. That's all.

But, I did the thing which a lot of writers shouldn't do: I decided to read my words before I'd finished, which rendered me dumb in the fingers and heart. I could not make Oona happy, or sad, or dead. I had to leave her sitting on damp grass while reading a book. I had to leave Violet single and dissatisfied. I left every character dangling, some more precariously than others, because I suddenly found myself indifferent to them. I hadn't made them interesting enough, hadn't managed to make myself believe in any of them, so I left them behind. I hated myself for not being able to do what Zadie can do, so I left all my imaginary people to gather dust.

I suppose what I did was worse than killing them. I abandoned them. I abandoned myself.

I'm not convinced I can write, to be honest. I've never really concentrated on writing fiction before, maybe only writing a handful of short stories which no one has really expressed much interest in, and after re-reading them, I can see why. Shall I leave to my muse? As I said, I don't believe in those. I don't think anything or anyone else can be blamed or praised for whatever I produce and offer up as art.

When I've written something I actually like, which is kind of unusual, I come away from it feeling exhausted, euphoric and proud. It is a physical reaction to a tenseness in my body that has suddenly abated. It is a response to my psyche coming up from the dark and giving evidence of itself by way of words. It may not be much, but it's what I have and I love the way I feel when it happens.

Whether or not I'll go back and finish Oona, remains to be seen. She waits, though. She reads on the damp grass and Violet is still waiting for her turn at happiness and they are unchanging, unaging. I can't say I've any nagging need to finish the story, but I am thinking about going back and re-reading it with brighter eyes.

I was cloudy before. There were no voices to guide me, and I couldn't make out the details.