As I've stated before now, my youngest brother and I are working together on book about our relationship while he was incarcerated for most of the past 17 years of his 35 years of life. Presently, he lives under the care of the state of California at a psychiatric facility in Napa. Between us is a definitive body of very open letters which chronicles the complex journey of our sibling friendship. Our purpose is two-fold. We hope to open the eyes of those who are unaware of this sub-section of American life; we wish to provide support and reassurance to other families caught in this almost impossible position on both sides of the barbed wire fence.
This is my virgin attempt at writing what will be my first of many books, unless one counts the numerous penned pages of material I basically copied from various other texts for my definitive expose on rocks back in the third grade. Around the scintillating chapter on quartz, I developed writer’s block – mica schist was an emotionally draining subject! Sadly, the world will never know my perspective on the world of all things metamorphic and igneous as my first draft ended up in the round file.
I’m learning that the initial idea of a book is a grand enough concept at its core. But once one actually starts the process, the pages may lead the writer in an entirely different direction. The contemplated book in the brain, seeded in the spirit, emerging from the heart, may in fact resemble very little the completed body of work. I don’t even possess one completed chapter, much less a focused outline, and I can see that.
For me, this has been especially true because the subject matter is very close to me. The subject matter involves me. It is ongoing. The end has yet to be determined and may, in fact, never be determined. Or it may arrive at an unattractive pre-determined dead end alley at a location unknown to me. There is no contract with a happiness clause; no product guarantee with a return policy if expectation and hope are not met with the desired outcome.
Because of these facts, I must contemplate the idea of a happy ending. Those two words paired together like the perfect couple, used in reference to a book or a movie or even for a high schooler, have never set well with me. Happily ever after is as close to mythical as a unicorn. It is an unfair expectation to foist on most readers. An insult, even, to the serious contemplative reader. The idea of ‘happy’ must be examined and found wanting.
And then it must be folded to create a neat origami crane of actual truth. Let not the elusive happy ending become the stumbling block to a solid story, be it fiction or non-fiction. Rather, let there be a satisfactory ending. Or, an ending laden with triumph over disappointment. Or, a conclusion which simply provides solace through an expression of the shared state of humanity which binds us frail human beings together in the interconnected web of mortal life. Because good people die every day. Strong women are felled by sudden strokes or heart attacks. Sensitive men are imprisoned by mental illness. Precious children are raped in civil wars in far-off places, just because. Innocent babies are ripped from the womb by inconvenienced would-be mothers. And bad people often seem to reap rewards in opposition to their actions. Fairness be damned, as I point out to my kids.
It is from this vantage point, thoughtfully pounded home to me tonight during my writers workshop, after a full day with a bevy of intelligent and insightful friends, that I reconnect with the germ of my original concept and begin anew. There is freedom in realizing I am allowed to piece together this complicated quilt of a biography without full knowledge as to its ending. Or the exact nature of that ending. I am free to simply write and be aggravated by that process. And that process alone.
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