Tales from the Widow’s Basement

Back in my ancient past I tried my hand at writing fiction. I gave up after a few years, telling myself and anyone who’d listen that I can’t plot my way out of a paper bag. But I’m a saver so it shouldn’t come as any surprise that I had a box of creative writing projects in the basement and as part of my purging mission that box was moved up to the garage this week where I spent an afternoon reading. Judging by the homework assignments I read, apparently I took a creative writing class in the ‘80s. I don’t remember the class but I do recognize my own handwriting so I can’t deny I took it. I also read a half-finished manuscript about a college girl who once had a promising future as an Olympic level ice skater and a Vietnam vet who lost a leg in the war. Yup, you guessed it. That book was intended as a romance novel and therefore it was doomed from the first page. Romance heroes---at least back in those days---had to be molten hot, hunks of physical perfection and mine was deeply flawed. It was a dark story, poorly written, and I could see why I couldn’t make it work.

I put that manuscript aside and started reading another half-finished historical romance that I vaguely remembered doing the background research for---the suffragettes in my hometown---but when I read the first chapter it was like I was reading something written by another person. Unlike the above mentioned book, this one had characters I liked right from the get-go. The heroine was a stereotypical, “spunky virgin” type who on a re-write would need to have some of her school-girl silliness surgically removed to be believable as a suffragette. (Stick a figure down my throat, that girl was naive!) The hero of the romance was the stereotypical successful, confident, gorgeous, take-charge guy who enjoyed flustering the virgin. (Be still my heart.) I’m thinking about finishing that book for NaNoWriMo coming up in November. Maybe as a comical spoof on romances, camp it up. Be ridiculous. Have fun. 

If you’ve never heard of NaNoWriMo here’s what their website says: “National Novel Writing Month is a fun, seat-of-your-pants approach to creative writing. On November 1, participants begin working towards the goal of writing a 50,000-word novel by 11:59 p.m. on November 30. Valuing enthusiasm, determination, and a deadline, NaNoWriMo is for anyone who has ever thought fleetingly about writing a novel.” It’s not all online either. Lots of cities have meet-ups over the month so you can interact in person with others working on novels. At my Write and Share Meet-Up last month a guy in the group said he organized a NaNoWriMo gathering last year. They took over a coffee shop and all sat around with their laptops, or with pen-in-hand J.K. Rowlings style.  

In 2013 I took part in NaNoWriMo and while I truly enjoyed the writing experience---the energy of hanging around the NaNoWriMo website---it was too soon into my widowhood for me to be working on a book about my husband’s struggle with post-stroke language disorders. The resulting manuscript is still waiting for me edit and that’s one book I truly do want to finish someday. All the more reason why I want to live to be 100. I’ll need that much time just to finish all my past projects. (Have I mentioned the box of half-made teddy bears in the basement?) I was prolific and productive back in the day. Not much got purged out of my “writing” box, by the way, most of the contents went back downstairs. I did throw out the research material for the suffragette book but I’m seriously considering fishing it out of the trash before the bag goes out to the street. 

The universe works in strange ways. Last night I was reading Stephen King’s book, On Writing, when I got to the part about where he talks about plotting books. He wrote a light bulb moment that seemed tailor-made for little-old me. “I distrust plot for two reasons,” he wrote,” first, because our lives are largely plotless, even when you add in all our reasonable precautions and careful planning; and second because I believe plotting and the spontaneity of real creation aren’t compatible.” A plot, according to Mr. King, is the writer’s last resort! Jeez, I wish I’d read that before I gave up on myself decades ago. I could have saved myself a lot of hand-wringing thoughts regarding failure. He likes to put characters into a predicament and watch them try to find their way out. A simple but dare I say God-like concept all rolled into one. Our lives really aren’t plotted, are they. We struggle, we thrive. We find love, we lose love. We’re down, we’re up and at the end of our days we’re lucky if we can go out singing, “I did it my way.” ©

And now, the end is near;

And so I face the final curtain.

My friend, I'll say it clear,

I'll state my case, of which I'm certain.

I've lived a life that's full.

I've traveled each and every highway;

And more, much more than this,

I did it my way.

Regrets, I've had a few;

But then again, too few to mention.

I did what I had to do

And saw it through without exemption.

I planned each charted course;

Each careful step along the byway,

And more, much more than this,

I did it my way.

Yes, there were times, I'm sure you knew

When I bit off more than I could chew.

But through it all, when there was doubt,

I ate it up and spit it out.

I faced it all and I stood tall;

And did it my way.

I've loved, I've laughed and cried.

I've had my fill; my share of losing.

And now, as tears subside,

I find it all so amusing.

To think I did all that;

And may I say - not in a shy way,

"Oh no, oh no not me,

I did it my way".

For what is a man, what has he got?

If not himself, then he has naught.

To say the things he truly feels;

And not the words of one who kneels.

The record shows I took the blows -

And did it my way!

Yes, it was my way.

(Lyrics written by Paul Anka, popularized by Frank Sinatra)