Intro
As my loyal readers know, I committed to writing this novel as part of a National Novel Writing Month experiment. A friend of mine suggested a genre that I had not heard of before. After having her explain it, I dived in and the following posts are the tentative result of my experiment. Having not read in this genre before, I am sure I will make some tactical errors. That is where you, dear readers, can offer your assistance. Please let me know if some aspect of my storytelling isn’t working. And, on the flip side of the critiquing coin, please let me know if something worked particular well, so I don’t second guess myself and remove it during the revisions that we all know are coming.
To help us all understand where my crazy story might be headed, I should inform you that genre suggested was alternate families. My understanding is to look at how being raised in two different environments might affect the main character. Since I am the daughter of a woman who once made borscht for my class that got a review of, “It’s delicious, but it’s not borscht,” I may have added my own whacky spin, so hopefully it still pleases the minds of my dear readers.
So goals for this year include:
- Actually finishing the whole novel as I post it for your consideration.
- Commit to a name for this fascinating piece.
- Don’t go crazy in the process.
- Have a completed novel to publish by the end of the year in digital or physical form. Maybe?? Perhaps??
Thanks for reading and encouraging me to stop semi-procrastinating a goal I have had since the late 1980s. Yes, I am that old.
~1: Nature~
They say you can’t remember being born or the first few years that follow, yet I have memories that could be nothing else. Maybe I pieced them together from what others told me. If that is the case, how do I picture them so vividly?
As I released my first breath in a plaintive scream, two shadows separated from the brightness in which I now lived. They tried to come into focus as my eyes adjusted to a world full of light. It would be months or years before I memorized every feature. In the meantime, life would get more interesting and only holding onto the memory of their loving smiles could get me through some of the harder moments. But as a newborn, I didn’t know that worry existed. As I grew, I learned more about that. Sometimes it felt like my learning came twice as fast as it did for anyone else.
Regardless, one truth lingers in my heart: no matter what final age I reach, I hope I always remember those first two faces. For most of that first year, I only knew mom. Whenever I cried, someone would rush to my aid. A halo of golden curls crowned the head of my rescuer. Eyes somewhere between blue and green would peer into mine with a mix of love and concern. The softest voice would coo at me. Then I would be lifted up and cradled against the smell of home and the song of my mother’s heart.
“Mommy’s here.”
I continued to fuss as she held me closer to her heart.
“Opera, my darling, what do you need?”
She became an expert at interpreting all my cries and even my softest snuffling sounds. She would provide whatever I needed with love and gentleness. Then she would sing softly to me. Though she never quite reached the right notes, her singing always soothed me and brought me back to a place of peace. Aside from her heartbeat, her voice was my favorite sound of that first year.
Next to such a wonderful mother, no one could compete for my affection. But if anyone stood a chance, it was Nona Bea. She told me once that the first time we met, I reached for her instinctively because she and my mother could be the same person at different ages. When she held me close though, I instantly realized my mistake and would not be consoled until my mother’s heart worked its magic once more.
That didn’t deter my Nona. She would hold me as long as I let her. Eventually, she won me over and I would allow her to hold me a little longer each time. I think it was the sound of her voice, laced with just the right emotion for whatever story she chose to share with me as I gazed up at her beaming face. I wish I could remember those stories. Maybe they are the same ones she told as I grew older, but perhaps they held answers that would have made the more confusing parts of my childhood suddenly make sense.
What I do remember was Nona Bea telling me how special I was. I think I recall this mostly from later conversations, but she must have started those assertions the very first time she saw me. I know all grandmothers do that, but the way she reminded me seemed different than what other families said to their children. Something in her intonation and the way she peered into my eyes struck me as saying more than the words revealed.
“You are special, my love, and no one will ever be able to help you navigate everything that comes your way, but you are strong like the women before you and you will figure it out.”
“Oh, mom, you told me that and look at me. I’m just an ordinary housewife,” my mother giggled
I cooed at the sound of her voice, more lyrical in speaking than in song.
Nona grabbed mom’s cheeks in that way older people do and leaned in, “Being a mother is never ordinary, not if you do it right. And you will.”
My mother blushed and turned away. Neither Nona nor I was fooled by this. We had seen the tears forming in the corner of her eyes. I could coo about it all I wanted and she would never understand that I knew. And Nona took the opportunity to blot away a few salty tears of her own.
