Writing About Handling Grief

I find it hard to know how far to go in writing about grief in fiction. Too little, and the rendition is shallow. Too much, and it's maudlin. I struggle with finding the balance, as I think many writers do. I began reading more books, mostly memoirs, by people who have struggled with grieving and moving on. Two I have returned to many times.

Making Toast by Roger Rosenblatt is his touching, funny and sad story of losing his daughter when she suddenly drops dead on the treadmill of an asymptomatic heart condition. She leaves three young children and a bewildered husband, who finds his life to be impossible. Rosenblatt and his wife move into the in-law apartment in their son-in-law's house to help raise three children. Rosenblatt himself had travelled as a journalist and, as a result, had been away too much to help with the day-to-day rearing of his own children. He masters one task in his new life: making toast every morning to meet the different and exacting demands of the children.

His story provides a guide to managing a new life against the darkness of loss. It is filled with vignettes of how he learns as much about himself as he does about his grandchildren.

Joan Didion was eating dinner one evening when her husband died at the table of a stroke. In The Year of Magical Thinking she discusses her denial of what happened with living a life without her husband. Again Didion's writing honestly of her pain and grief is offset by snippets of humor.

Not to make light of real grief and loss, I too struggled with how much to show when Mad Max loses her daughter in Book 1 of the Mad Max Mystery series. How do I convey the depth of her denial and pain? How do I lighten the mood for the children? I didn't want the book to descend into darkness and stay there, but I wanted the darkness to be just under the surface, ready to re-emerge when needed.

Now as I edit Book 2, the darkness is still there, sometimes discussed, never forgotten. A different kind of darkness enters Book 2. In one episode, Max confronts a memory from her childhood she would rather forget. It forms how she reacts when one of her grandchildren is put in jeopardy.

Last year, one member of my writing group gave me great advice. He told me I had to go to the "dark places within" and return to use the emotions to show what my main character was enduring. I'd rather not do that; however, he is right. I can take inspiration from others who have published guideposts on managing grief, but I can never make it feel real to my readers without returning from my own dark places.

Why didn't I decide to be a humor writer?

Muses and Musings

I never know when an image will strike me, or when I will smell something that sends me down long-forgotten mental highways, or where the smallest item dropped on the ground might be the next clue or trigger for a scene.

To wit, last weekend Terry and I slipped away from Smith Mountain Lake and drove through the Blue Ridge Mountains to Blowing Rock, NC. Terry had been through there with his wild hog biker buddies and thought I would love it. I did. Sitting on benches with a terrific cup of coffee watching people walk by. Drifting in an out of shops, doing some early Christmas shopping, more looking than buying. Finding wonderful restaurants with good wine lists. Dropping in on a British pub for a late afternoon pint.


And then there was the little white baby sock lying near the sidewalk. I wonder who owned it. I wonder who dropped it. I wonder if there is a half-barefoot baby in a stroller some place, kicking its bare toes in the sun. I wonder when I will use this wee bit of ephemera in a story.

Inspiration

I never know where inspiration -- or ideas for a story/poem/essay -- comes from. Usually when I least expect it, an idea grabs hold of gray cells and won't let go until I face it.

So it was the other night when I was driving home from Jim Minick's poetry reading (see earlier post). I was deeply moved by his oral stories and poems about his aunt who has passed away. How lucky he was to know her. This got me to thinking about my dear relatives who have also passed.

Missing my aunt, who was my second mother, led to me to finish an essay called The Gift. I polished it and submitted it to a writing contest. That wasn't enough to calm the twitchy gray cells, however.

Now, I don't believe in automatic writing, but I do believe in channeling people's feelings and thoughts. I couldn't get my dear mother out of my mind. I began writing what I thought would be another essay. Right now, it looks more like free verse. Funny, neither my mother nor I like poetry all that much. I don't know why the feelings came out in poetic form. Maybe because I wanted to keep the words sparse. Tell the story with the least amount of words possible. Maybe I was too tired and lazy to form complete sentences for an essay. Maybe it came out the only way I could handle it.

At any rate, I can thank Jim Minick for stirring up emotions that have, thus far, manifested themselves in a poem.

Wonder where my next inspiration will come from.