The hummingbird

The weather did not cooperate for our family vacation this year. With the exception of a few drizzly days in the beginning, the whole damned thing was all 60s and 70s and blue skies as far as you could see. Ridiculous. (And, of course, perfect.)

Each year we come to Hunt's Corner at the end of August and turn off our computers. This year, I shut off my Internet connection early in the first week -- I didn't go entirely 'net free as I tended to things like bills. I wanted to easily do some writing, too. Maya tried to convince me to write by hand, and oh, I really wanted to be that high quality of a role model for her. Sadly, writing by hand is no longer a satisfying experience for me.

The second weekend of our vacation I shut off the laptop entirely. Computer free for only five days, 'net free for closer to ten. This year I felt a twinge of anxiety about two or three weeks before. But when I actually stopped the maniacal social networking I'd been doing it was... not a breath of fresh air, not a relief, not even earth-shattering or any kind of a big deal. It was just fine. Occasionally I'd wish I could quickly Google something. Regularly I'd think of some of my online friends and miss them. On my first night "back" I kind of came in with a splash (meme on Facebook, commenting like crazy, Tweeting like a fool, a blog post about my questions about anarchism). But I'm already tired of it. Over the vacation I read a complete novel, 3/4 of a book of essays, and got through several chapters of a boring as hell biography before realizing I just thought it sucked and gave it up.

When asked by a Twitter friend how my vacation was, I told her honestly, "It changed my life." My life was changed on this vacation by a hummingbird.

A while back a friend relayed a beautiful and personal story about a hummingbird that I just couldn't shake. The great feelings I got thinking of that story morphed and blossomed as the hummingbird (I'm sure there were two, but I only ever saw one at a time) made the rounds with its hum like an amplified bumble bee. I tried capturing it with the camera and got a few pictures (here's one --->), though I'm no photographer and of course the little buggers are awfully quick.

This little friend, though, seemed to always be around. I'd even sometimes sit on the porch and think, "I wish that hummingbird would pay a visit," and sure as anything, it'd show up. A few times it hovered in the flowers just inches from me.

For years now I've wanted to write "my life story," as pretentious as that may sound. I've been hung up by the effect my tale might have on my loved ones. I read a lot of memoirs and personal essays and frequently consider what the authors say about their friends and loved ones... how are they okay with this? On all sides? Someone like David Sedaris, for example, who is rarely complimentary about anyone. When he sees those folks on the street or at Thanksgiving or wherever, what does everyone say to each other? How are people around him when they know anything they say or do might end up in a book? Because of these kinds of questions I knew I'd never write my life story while my parents were alive, for example. Just changing names and details to make things more anonymous felt hollow. So, I've been stuck just churning out a blog post now and again with my story percolating inside.

Well, the hummingbird gave me my answer.

Just a few days ago I was sitting outside on one of these excruciatingly beautiful (and almost bug-free, I might add) days reading Amy Tan's "The Opposite of Fate." A gift from Sal Towse, one of my good online friends and serious writing mentors. I had just finished Meg Wolitzer's The Ten Year Nap earlier in the day. While reading the Nap book I kept thinking, wow, this is a fine story but I could so do this better. Someone once said that all the stories have been told; to think we have something original to share is the ultimate in arrogance. Well, that's fine and dandy. I actually sort of agree with the idea on some level that "it's been done." Thing is, I used that as my excuse for not writing for a long time... and other excuses... 'til I found the "how would my family react" excuse... then came the hummingbird.

So, how did this hummingbird do it?

I was reading Tan's book. Mulling over how well she handles the mix of fiction and real life. She writes fiction but doesn't hide for a second that real life is her inspiration. I looked up to watch the hummingbird for a bit. I thought, wow, I bet those things have a seriously rigorous method to make sure they cover all their territory and get every single flower. Then I thought, or, maybe, they're just super haphazard and swoop around their territory and bloop into this flower and that flower and the next as the "mood" strikes. In either case, they're obviously some of the hardest working critters out there.

It doesn't matter how they do it, they just do it. It doesn't matter if my stories come from my life or are made up versions of my life or are not even related to my life but just fit in well with the rest of it, the story wants to be told.

Oops. Passive voice. It does, though. The story is gurgling but it's passive right now. It wants to be told.

I admitted to a friend earlier that I am feeling quite a bit like Michelangelo in his famous (won't Google it, but you'll know what I mean*) "let the form come out of the stone" or whatever he said. The idea that the form, the statue, is in there and he just needs to let it out. Chip away what's not necessary.

I've balked at organization. I've refused all the "how-to" books and websites and suggestions of friends. It's not that I think I can't learn from others who have gone before. I surely can. I surely will. But, guess what? An actual outline has been forming in me since those moments with the hummingbird. The hummingbird ornament I've treasured for ten years (sort of but not quite like this one) more than most of the ornaments. Setting up the red sugar water hummingbird feeders some years and watching the visitors every day. The hummingbird as planner, as artist, as clever, hard to catch, all the qualities. I'd research them, of course, learn what the hummingbird is really all about (sort of Kingsolver-ish). But, as is my way I wouldn't rely on the facts or sticking to completely precise or accurate data. Each of these strands of the hummingbird's existence would help me weave together the stories.

There will be 2-5 girls and women, as the main characters, I think. The stories of each will be snapshots, almost stand alone short stories. The reader will wonder occasionally if the main characters are somehow connected or related or maybe even the same 1-3 people. There will be other recurring characters in the stories. Men and boys of varying depth, other girls and women too, of course. The stories will all take place in the United States, though whether there will be one geographic center or not, I'm not sure. There will be a lot of sex. There will be a lot of drinking and drugs. There will be a lot of confused-girl/woman-finds-herself in several of the stories. The stories will evolve from each main character's point of view, first or third person.

I'm bursting to start building these characters. The layers!

Because of that hummingbird and my obsession with it over the last couple weeks, I've found this amazing freedom from all of my excuses.

"I don't have the right kind of brain to write fiction," bah. Just because I like writing about myself doesn't mean I can't write someone else. I have no doubt I can.

"My parents, my father in particular, will totally freak out!" Bah. This will be fiction. No need to fret, parents. (My father is already calling this "the next great American novel," because he's, you know, not at all full of grandiose ideas...)

"I don't want anyone to tell me how to do it (so I won't study up on how it's done)," bah. I'm diving into the depths of the how-to pool. I'm going to figure out what I write that'll be enough so I can find someone to pay for this project. I'm fundable. It's going to be good.

"I don't know how to write a novel," bah. I do things all the time I don't know how to do. When I decide to do them, I almost invariably do them well. I've got amazing resources available to me both in written and human forms. And/or I'll do it my way. That is, I'll just do it and figure it out as I go.

"I've got to make a living, I have no time," bah. Maya's in school as of this coming Monday. Althea's still a baby. I'll get my grantwinners.net work done, household stuff done, and no doubt at all there'll be time for this. (Plus, if pay-me-to-write-it works out as I expect, it'll be even more justifiable to do it during work hours.)

"The story's already been told," bah bah and triple bah. No one knows what my life has been like, no one knows the characters that are coming out to play, no one has heard my story. They think they have, maybe. They'll lump me in a category, maybe. They'll see me as a stereotype, maybe. But there's that hummingbird. It will weave in and out dart around and hummm and buzzzzz and whirrrrr and tie together all the threads.

I already hear the cheers from my friends who have urged me onto this path and they don't even know I've made this decision, yet. And, yes, if you're curious you can ask me about it, ask how it's going, all those things. I can already tell you it's going well.



*Okay, I Googled it. According to the always correct world wide web, Michelangelo said, "Every block of stone has a statue inside it and it is the task of the sculptor to discover it."


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