Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes!
If I
had my druthers, I’d stay much the same. No new lifelines (otherwise known and
wrinkles), no serious drama, no changes in the family, or at work.
But
would I prefer that, really?
I’ve
learned a lot, being an author. Reaching the well-over-fifty mark hasn’t dented
the learning curve either.
In a
novel, no one wants to read about happy people living happy lives. Barbie and
her perfect self, driving the latest pink convertible, with her waspish waist and
high-riding bust. Ken with just-so rakish hair, cut muscles proclaiming an
overabundance of testosterone.
Snooze fodder.
Happiness
is elusive, perhaps nearly attainable. There’s hope, but the reader isn’t sure
if the hero will win, or even survive. These are the stories we want to keep
reading, and miss when we flip the last page.
Show
me the real Barbie—she goes by “Babs”—schlepping
to the kitchen for coffee, her nappy over-processed hair sticking out like a
scared cat’s tail. Ken’s in the bathroom, doing that three-fart thing he does
every morning, humming to himself off-key and leaving whisker specks gummed in
toothpaste trails across the counters. The kids are grown. One’s a recovering alcoholic,
country-star wannabe in Memphis; the other sells manufactured homes in Lake
City. The dog has ear mites, and barfs up pieces of rubber bands and pantyhose
and anything else he can get his paws on. The cat shreds the furniture and has
sprayed the back door so often, the porch smells like Wild Kingdom.
The
toilet in the master bathroom sounds like a waterfall. When Barbie turns on the
ancient dishwasher, she has to step outside to talk on the phone. Better out
there anyway. Ken hates the mounds of cigarette butts she scatters like pixie
dust. Heck with him. Her smoke smells better than his gas.
Have
to use my imagination, when I think of Barbie and Ken. Keeps me from wanting
to, I don’t know, shave their heads and pull off a leg or an arm. Perfection is
annoying. Probably the reason my childhood dolls never made it to the “collectables”
stage. Even as a kid, I sniffed a load of marketing hoo-hah.
One
thing for sure: change promotes growth—with characters, and in real life. Some
years, I face greater challenges. We all do. Death, taxes, jobs, relatives. A
few things you can see heading your way. Others come at you like a texting, drunken
reveler at a busy intersection. One minute you’re minding your own business,
thinking about how you’re going to reheat that frozen vegetable soup for dinner;
the next you’re steaming in the ditch with a 911 operator yammering in your ear.
This
year, in lieu of New Year’s Resolutions, I made a list of things I wanted to
manifest in the coming twelve months. A friend suggested this technique. Said
she did this every January and hid the page so she could pull it out later to
see what had come to fruition. Most things did.
Beat
the heck out of swearing off sweets, or losing five pounds, or getting
organized. I have pounded those poor resolutions down until they are flat
enough to be a fetching wall hanging.
So
here’s to a year of change. To crawling from the ditch, should I end up there
by no intention of my own. To loving and supporting friends, to eating some
chocolate, to writing some stories.
To
living. Messy as it can be.