Stranger Than Fiction

I am one of those naive people who looks for traces of themselves in every fictional 'someone' they encounter. I look for elements of my life in every fabricated situation. Not surprisingly, I've realized that my favorite books each contain a pivotal character that I identify with so strongly, it's almost like reading about another me. I was Scarlett, Jo, Meggie and Justine in other lives. You can call me crazy; If I wasn't such a private person, I'd give you examples of how like me they are. I could point out how certain characters are so realistic and well-developed that they behave with a predictably human unpredictability just like you and I. Which naturally brings me to a conclusion about their authors: they're damned good writers. (Another thing: they're all women. I am no feminist, but I'll tell you something. I've never identified with a female character in a book written by a man. I'm curious to know whether this works both ways; It wouldn't surprise me. I'm also open to reading something that proves otherwise. I so despised the weakness of the female lead in House of Sand and Fog that I wanted to smack her and tell her to buck up. Maybe that comes from descending from women tougher than shoe leather, women who just do what must be done, who roll with the punches. No woman in my family would just roll over like that, lose her head and give up. But then, we as a rule are unbelievably able and sane. And unlike that poor soul, we are our own support group and therapists. We stick together.)

I love books. I love a good epic best. I've already gone through three paperback copies of Colleen McCullough's The Thorn Birds with no signs of slowing. I asked a friend recently if he thought it was a waste of life to read the same book repeatedly. His reply was completely characteristic of his genuine, logical wisdom: No. It's a different book every time. Not surprisingly, that struck a chord with me. It makes it okay to notice some new similarity to my own evolving situation every time I read it. It gives me leave to randomly open the Bible in moments of despair, even though I am not particularly religious (another post altogether), and find the perfectly applicable passage from which to interpret comfort and peace. For reasons similar, I also love Alexandra Ripley's much-debated, debased and scorned sequel to Gone with the Wind, titled Scarlett. I love the girl's grit, her honest biases, the utterly believable emotional transformation she undergoes and the rich tapestry of Irish history woven into the storyline; if I could research like Alexandra must have, I'd already be a celebrated novelist. Anyhow, Scarlett's self-discovery and metamorphosis from impetuous, assumptive, thoughtless child to self-reliant, gracious woman gives me hope for my own future, even if she is just fiction.

Other books I simply cannot live without are Little Women, Paulo Coelho's painfully beautiful and inspiringThe Alchemist, Sydney Sheldon's terrifically twistedThe Other Side of Midnight, Mary Higgins-Clark's great autobiography Kitchen Priveleges, the brilliant The English Patient, Don't Let's Go to the Dogs Tonight, Rain of Gold, Original Sin, everything Jane Austen, anything Shakespeare, Anne Rice's original four Vampire Chronicles... oh Lord, there are too many to name. Someday I'll list them all. I could blog forever about books, but then I'd never write my own.

I'm toying with the horror of my recently formulated theory that everybody's got one great story in them and that's all. Colleen McCullough's subsequent books are all grand, and there's no doubt she's a genius, but Thorn Birds was so superb, and nothing else has been quite as magnificent. Margaret Mitchell tore Gone with the Wind out of the very marrow of her bones, where it had steeped in her family's storytelling all her life, and that was it. One massive, beautiful thing for the world, but only one. Don't J.K. Rowling me, either, because as far as I'm concerned that's one big story. It's all Harry and Hogwarts. No doubt she's one helluva plotter to keep it as raw and pulsing as she has. And think of Tolkein's Rings. One story. Six books, one story. A great story. Janet Evanovich works humorous miracles with each subsequent Stephanie Plum book, but still. One life. And yet, so what? If that is the case, where is the sadness in it? If it's just one, but it's your own and it's great and you leave the world that, isn't it enough?

My story hasn't surfaced yet. I like telling you about my life, but that's all it is, is my life. I may have just one chance to create great fiction, to make up a life that will cause a literary eclipse, and then that's it. It hasn't bubbled up yet. Whatever the key to my greatness, it's still buried. And for right now, I like it right where it is.