What do a little girl's tea set, pompom-filled cups from said plastic tea set, and gumball beads have in common? (Although it's probably not too difficult to guess), you'll have to wait until next week because I'm still toiling away at new projects. So, for the remainder of this post, I'm moving on to something else, a kind of book review-slash-fiction-exercise mash-up.
The book in question is Barefoot, by Elin Hilderbrand. The particulars of the novel aren't important (well, they are, but not to this post); all you need to know is that one of the characters is a college student struggling to write fiction that's about something bigger than himself:
"Chas Gorda warned his students against being too "self-referential." He was constantly reminding his class that no one wanted to read a short story about a college kid studying to be a writer. Josh understood this, but as he rolled into the town of 'Sconset with the mysterious briefcase next to him, he couldn't help feeling that this was a moment he could someday mine." Hilderbrand, 21.
This passage caught my interest. After all, I'm always tempted to fictionalize my own experiences, cloaking them in the dubious disguises of different ages, different towns, different names. (Is that Technicolor-caftan-wearing craftista named Casey a crude caricature of myself? I should add that Casey lives on a houseboat, by contrast, paddleboats make me seasick.) I can't help but wonder what it would be like to make up a story -- or at least the beginning of one -- that's as alien to me as Alaska. So, I'm forgoing my usual alliteration-addled, pop culture reference-riddled write-up to give it a whirl, even if a blog, by its very nature, is the stuff of self reference.
Ever since she had entered her second trimester, Mitzi was constantly craving things. She wanted gumballs, ice cream, and lemon raspberry iced tea, but whenever she indulged, she threw up. "Too sweet," Dr. Lindstrom had clucked when she called his office to to ask his opinion. She had gotten into the habit of consulting him about these prenatal yet not quite medical queries because he was the only person Mitzi trusted. Her husband, Mark, was teaching a course about supernatural themes in Victorian literature at Indiana State University while she managed the store at home in Vermont. The store was, inexplicably, a hardware store, something Mitzi knew nothing about. But it had been in Mark's family for decades, so when he got the offer to teach his dream course at ISU -- his doctoral thesis had been an analysis of the nuclear family as it related to Dracula through the ages, an irony that was not lost on Mitzi -- she agreed to hold down the fort. If she glanced at her gently rounded stomach and wondered what she would feel like once she was bigger and alone, then she didn't voice it. Mark promised to take leave and return to Vermont closer to her due date, hastily adding that until then she would have her mother and sisters. And, of course, Dr. Lindstrom. She nodded, trying not to think of her mother's more overbearing-than-helpful maternity advice, and of her sisters squabbling, or, in rare spells of harmony, complaining about their husbands and children. They had six children between them, three each, and watching them tear through their mother's scrupulously maintained pink Victorian never failed to give Mitzi a headache. Her mother never once rose her voice, instead offering the little miscreants fresh-baked cookies like the born hostess that she was. True, her eye had twitched a bit when Caitlin knocked over her antique milk glass fruit bowl. But she let it pass, waiting a beat before reaching into the overturned-but-not-cracked bowl and handing Caitlin an apple with such grace and aplomb that Caitlin cowered, shyly accepting the fruit and slinking off to a corner to eat it. Mitzi's mother had the rare ability of charming children to that they both loved and respected her. Thinking of this, Mitzi nervously rubbed her stomach, worrying that she herself would never be as effective. Unfortunately, that was one problem that even the esteemed Dr. Lindstrom could not fix. "Aw, screw it," muttered Mitzi, then ducked into the freezer for some rainbow sherbet.
No comments:
Post a Comment