Writing for Posterity, and the Ice Palace Book

[pegkerr]

From The Pillow Book of Sei Shonagon:

It was a clear, moonlit night a little after the tenth of the Eighth Month. Her majesty, who was residing in the Empress's Office, sat by the edge of the veranda while Ukon no Naishi played the flute for her. The other ladies in attendance sat together, talking and laughing; but I stayed by myself, leaning against one of the pillars between the main hall and the veranda.

'Why so silent,' said Her Majesty. 'Say something. It is sad when you do not speak.'

'I am gazing into the autumn moon,' I replied.

'Ah yes,' she remarked. 'That is just what you should have said.'

Such a simple little scene, deftly sketched in just a few paragraphs. One can see it--the moonlit garden, the ladies gathered, talking softly, the flutist, the Empress, and Sei Shonagon, looking up at the moon with a melancholic air. The ladies described--once living, breathing people--have been dead and dust now for a thousand years, and yet the words on the page immediately brings them to life for us again.

Shakespeare understood this to the core, and examined it at length in the sonnets. From the ending of Sonnet 18:


. . . Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this [the sonnet] and this gives life to thee.
.

I read a story years ago--and damn me for not remembering the title or author--which started, very simply, by describing a man, a simple laborer, who died in his sleep one night. The rest of the story is a straightforward account of how his presence is erased from the world. He had no children. His simple possessions are sold and scattered to the winds. The story tells of a gathering of friends twelve years later, eating dinner at a common inn. In the course of the conversation, one says to the other, "We went there with that fellow we worked with long ago--what was his name, John Josephson--" and the conversation goes on from there. And that the narrator tells us was the last time that John Josephson's name was ever spoken by another human being.

The years speed on, and then another forty years or so later the narrator focuses on something, a written record--I don't remember what it was, a written ledger, or a Bible in a church. There is a storm (or was it a fire?) and the book with John Josephson's name (or was it his signature?) is destroyed. The page is soaked, and the ink runs, or perhaps it is burned. There are five letters left in his name, then three. Then one. Then the last letter is gone, as is John Josephson from all human memory.

[Anyone remember that story??? Title and author???]

I have been thinking about the ice palace book. Well--sort of squinting at it out of the corner of my eyes without trying to look at it directly. I have been wondering, rather gloomily, whether I should just admit facts and remove all reference to it from my user profile page. I haven't worked on it in months. It was going well, and then it wasn't going well, and then it all seemed to dry up. I do not know whether I made a mistake in talking about it in this journal--did that somehow suck all the creative juices out of it, keeping me from actually writing it? Is it just that I am so busy with the kids and my job, and the fact that I am not writing is an inevitable reflection of the busy nature of my life, or am I just making lame excuses for laziness, lack of talent? Am I not working on the book because I am depressed, or am I depressed because I am not working on the book? Screw the cause: I am very very very depressed, and I haven't been working on the book. Not for a long time.

And yet, and yet . . .

I am not entirely divorced from it, it is not entirely dead for me, because I am struggling with the same things Solveig is struggling with. I always knew that there was much going on in the book about permanence, impermanence. Solveig is horrified by Rolf's quest for immortality, but she understands it, too, because, like Jack, she wants to create something that will last. I type insurance paperwork for a living, and she designs shopping malls; like me, she sure as hell isn't getting what she needs from her day job. She gets irritable--just as I do--by those who try to convince her that since she's mothering a child, she should accept that as her gift to the future. No, Solveig says, and I say--I want to do something, make something, that will last. We both want a life's work that will matter, long term, that will stand for years to come. She ponders this as she designs an ice palace which will melt, but which she hopes will live in memory, just as I ponder my writing. I have my paper journals lined up in neat rows in my office. What will happen to them when I die? I have thought about this--Rob will have the right to read them if he survives me. The girls can read them after they have reached the age of twenty-one, and they will inherit them. In my deepest anxious craving to be remembered, to matter, somehow, I wonder if they will ever be read by anyone else, people who never have the chance to meet me. Will the words be interesting--enough to last? Will anyone give a damn?

What do I have to say for the ages? Will my life be remembered years, decades, even centuries later, like Sei Shonagon, like Shakespeare, like Jane Austen, like Tolkien, because of the words that I wrote--words about my own life, or my fictional creation? Or will I be erased inexorably by the remorseless, relentless, hand of Time?

I do not know what to do about the ice palace book. I seem paralyzed about it, and when I permit myself to think beyond the blackness of my depression--which seems just about impossible these days--I am in a rage, absolutely fucking furious at myself for being so blocked.

The fury does not help. It is not a spur to action; it just makes me feel worse, if I possibly could.

But beyond that, even, there is still something there about the book that is connected to me, to my deepest concerns, so I guess it's not dead yet--even if I can't figure out how to grasp it and shape it and make it work--or if I can't somehow force myself to do the hard slogging work to bring it into being. Whatever the cause.

God help me.

(Or maybe I should just switch to sonnets.)

Comments

[http://users.livejournal.com/anam_cara_/]

Hmmm. Isn't it a common practice for authors to set stories and plots aside for periods of time?

It seems, as you've said, that you identify with Solveig, and where she is in the plot that you have written. Perhaps this book is meant to be a lifelong project, that Solveig will grow and find answers as you do in life.

I would think it would be particularly difficult to write a novel with such strong identification with the main character that drives the plot- there is only so much you can do to change and control the path your life creates, yet you control all of those elements in the novel, yet if you are tied to that character, isn't it frustrating that you can't project and drive your life in the same manner? Or frustrating when you can't drive the character, because the elements aren't in place in your life to give you the right insight or inspiration to mirror it back?

Gah, I don't know if I'm articulating what I'm thinking. It's just that it seems everything is tied together, and you are directing so much frustration at yourself, yet from the outside it seems logical that it isn't YOU or your writing ability or your creativity, but that this book isn't going to go according to your plans, and that's not necessarily a bad thing, but a different thing.

I think you are a wonderful writer. What you write touches me. So it's not a novel that's reaching me, but it's you, and your thoughts and insights, your words. Just because those words aren't placed in a novel, are they any less? To me they're not.

[peacockharpy.livejournal.com]

She gets irritable--just as I do--by those who try to convince her that since she's mothering a child, she should accept that as her gift to the future. No, Solveig says, and I say--I want to do something, make something, that will last.

Yes, oh yes. A thousand times yes.

My mother once said to me, "Why are you punishing yourself to write, and staying up so late? Just take care of Meg now. You'll have plenty of time to write later." And I had to explain to her that I have to write now, or I won't write later. I owe it to myself, and I owe it to Meg, too -- to be only a mother is to be less than the best mother I can be.

But beyond that, even, there is still something there about the book that is connected to me, to my deepest concerns, so I guess it's not dead yet--even if I can't figure out how to grasp it and shape it and make it work--or if I can't somehow force myself to do the hard slogging work to bring it into being. Whatever the cause.

Perhaps because it is so close to you, so personally tied, it becomes more difficult to work on? I tried to write a book that was closely centered around my own concerns and connections, specifically having to do with my problematic relationship to the place I grew up, and I just wasn't ready yet. It's not that I'm not writing about things that concern me, but I'm just not particularly ready to write about that one thing that concerns me.

But don't beat yourself up. You do some beautiful descriptive writing in this LJ, and you are so unflinchingly honest in your personal assessments -- and braver than I am, to put them up here! -- and I can't help thinking that this is, in many ways, the preparation you need to do to be able to write the ice palace book.

(And if you don't write that one, you will write another.)

[nmalfoy.livejournal.com]

I'm so sorry you weren't at TWH but I have to say that your hubby is a gem. He's smart, and funny, and very, very sweet. You found a good one.

[pegkerr.livejournal.com]

Thank you! I'm glad he got to be there, and glad you got to know him a bit.

And glad I'll get to see him again today.

[cakmpls.livejournal.com]

Since I've had some misunderstandings, other times and places, I will preface my comments by saying that I am here merely observing that I see the world differently, that it is interesting how drastically differently humans can see the world, and that one of my firmest convictions in the world is that "different" means simply "different" and not "better/worse."

What do I have to say for the ages? Will my life be remembered . . . because of the words that I wrote . . .?

For me, those are two separate questions. If I have anything to say for the ages and manage to say it in some lasting form, wonderful. But I don't care whether those who read it remember my life at all--as I said above, whether they even know my name.

I have no interest at all in being remembered by people who never knew me. I hope to leave the world a better place, in some way, any way, than it would have been without me. I hope to change a person's life, here and there, now and then, for the better. If I find out during my life that I have done so, I will be grateful for that information. And if I ever write something that "lives" on after me and helps someone, that's great, but--it makes no difference to me whether the person who reads it, after I am gone, even knows who wrote it, much less knows anything about my life.

If I create something, or do something, that during my life has a positive effect on people, it makes my life more enjoyable to know it. But if I create something that lives on after me, it is sufficient that it does so. Either dead is dead, and what goes on in this world will make no difference to me, or there is an afterlife, and what goes on in this world will make no difference to me.

The overwhelming, vast majority of humans have lived and died and never been remembered after the last person who knew them died. Most of the rest have been "remembered" only in the sense of someone having a photograph with a name on the back, or knowing where a grave is, or tracing genealogy. The number whose names have remained in public knowledge, attached to lasting work, is infitesimal in the total historical world population. I understand that many people want to be among that infitesimal number, but I don't care.

Did you read my recent post about the poetry I wrote when I was young? The poem that won a prize, about leaving footprints in the sand, expresses part of my view of life that remains valid all these years later: I will walk through my life, changing what I happen to change, and hoping that overall I do so for the better. And if someone sees one of my footprints and thinks of something new, helpful, valuable, that's enough. I don't care that I have walked on out of view and no one ever knows whose footprint it was.

Do I want to "leave my mark" on the world? Yes, I do. But just by being alive, I will do so; no one can avoid doing so. My hope is that my mark will do more good than harm. That's all.

I hope you don't mind, but I'm going to copy my comments here into my own LJ, to save them for myself.

[pegkerr.livejournal.com]

Of course you may copy these comments in your own journal. I welcome your thoughts as always.

I should clarify my own. I think my hope is close to yours in that I hope my impact will be good rather than harm. After all, there is no doubt that Hitler and Stalin will be remembered for generations, but I have no wish for a legacy like theirs! There are those who will be remembered only for making themselves ridiculous, like Monica Lewinsky. I think, too, of the hapless Edward de Vere, the then Lord of Oxford. He may have had an illustrious life, but he is chiefly remembered for the story told about him and Queen Elizabeth. While making a bow to greet the Queen, he broke a loud fart. He was so mortified that he left England and traveled in Europe for seven years. When he finally dared to come home, he was welcomed warmly by the Queen, who told him, "My lord, I had forgot the fart."

I think when I say I want my name remembered, it is because the best hope I have always had to make an impact would be to write something that would be remembered, and if the writing is still there, so my name would be there, too. But if there were something else I could do that would have a good and positive and lasting impact on the world--not the children I raise, but my own work--even if my name were forgotten, I would be happy with that.

[cakmpls.livejournal.com]

But if there were something else I could do that would have a good and positive and lasting impact on the world--not the children I raise, but my own work--even if my name were forgotten, I would be happy with that.

I think there's something here that connects with my oft-repeated "the only life you can live is the one you have." For me, living the life I have in the best (for many varying values of "best") way I can from moment to moment is having "a good and positive and lasting impact on the world." And for the past 22 years and the next several, raising our kids is an integral part of "the life I have." It helps, of course, that for me parenting is the most challenging, most interesting, and most rewarding thing I have ever done--or expect ever to do.

[skylarker.livejournal.com]

Or will I be erased inexorably by the remorseless, relentless, hand of Time?

Yes and no. I think it depends on the nature of Time. If all awareness is time-bound, then a life once past will inevitably be forgotten.

If awareness can transcend time, like a reader transcends the events of a book, then one can flip back through the pages and revisit lives that don't appear in the later chapters.

[dichroic.livejournal.com]

No answers, but I do have some questions. First, it sounds like this book does have to be written, but does this book have to be written this year? Are you the sort of writer who works on multiple things at a time? I see your point about not wanting to be only a mother, but it's clear that motherhood is a creative thing for you. Do you do more than one creative thing at a time? Some do, some don't.

If this book can wait a little, could work on something else until it's ready to move? If motherhood (or this particular part of motherhood, or anything else that may be going on in your life right now) and writing don't go together *for you* (as opposed to for aynone else) maybe you could work on the sort of exercise that isn't meant to be a Great Work but is meant to improve your writing skills. I'm not a writer but I am a rower: some days I just don't have the energy to try to increase my speed or stamina, but those days can be made productive if I use them to do drills to improve my form.

Also, I understand wanting to be remembered, especially because I probably won't be. (Your entry left me wanting to go write my name in all my books.) Does it help that you will certainly be remembered for what you have already said, and the books that you have already published? If not, there's at least the small comfort that maybe that's your brain's way of telling you that you do have something else important to say, once it works its way out into the light.

[aome.livejournal.com]

I, too, have been caught up in the circle of hating myself and being depressed and angry that I'm not working on some task/project, and those feelings then get in my way of actually doing it. Sometimes I've just had to give myself permission to not-do it (usually have to be prodded into giving self permission; I'm not good at it) and then it DOES come to me eventually. Try not to beat yourself up too much over the book; it sounds to me like it WILL be written because it means so much to you personally, as a reflection on your own journey as much as being a story you wish to tell. But it doesn't make you any less of a person, nor any less of a writer, if you take longer to create it. Perhaps this needs to be a hibernating season; take care of yourself first, so that spring (and creativity) can bloom later. It's a kick to self-pride and self-esteem to have to relinquish something, I know, but it does no good to beat yourself up over it, so acknowledge the period of rest, and know that it's not going away. The story will still be there, when you're ready.

Or will I be erased inexorably by the remorseless, relentless, hand of Time?
This is an area you and Will seem to share, that I do not. My view is that we all matter to the ones around us - our families, our friends, our coworkers, everyone we meet and touch, including online, to a greater or lesser extent. Think of the sorts of changes in the world around you if we played "Its a Wonderful Life" based on your life, all the holes that would appear, people who would have never known your love and wit and thoughts. Even for me, 1500 miles away, my life would be quite different the past few years without having crossed your path. Anyway - that sense of 'importance' is usually enough for me, but Will is petrified he will die and cease to exist, not just that there isn't an afterlife (a separate fear), but that he won't have ever mattered to anyone in an 'important enough' way. He can acknowledge that, yes, of course he matters to close friends and family, but it's not enough for him. He wants to have Done Something, but he doesn't know what that would be, and I cannot help him. I wish I could convince him - and you - that it is not necessary to make a huge splash on the world in order to make a permanent imprint, because just by the nature of being, of having lived, some small part of you will always go on, carried on in those you met, and then the people who come after, even if there isn't a printed record. (Although, of course, there IS a printed record for you - your books. Library of Congress and all that. :D ) Anyway - I'm sure this paragraph will just have you shaking your head and saying "She doesn't understand", as Will does, but I just had to put in my 2 knuts anyway.

The 'very depressed' worries me. Have you spoken with your physician (or whoever is monitoring your meds) about this? What do you feel you need, that you are not getting, and is there any way to help you get it, even in some small way? Can you talk to your family about helping support you more, as you might if you had a more visible physical ailment (ie a broken ankle)? You need that same kind of support now, too.

I'd send you a loaf of homemade bread and some soup if it would fit in the mail. :-P

[callunav.livejournal.com]

That's a great excerpt, and I thank you for sharing it.

I, too, get caught up in wanting to make a difference. I don't docus it on my writing - I think, really, that I'm too young still to know how to say things *right,* in a way that can reach forward successfully. I like to think that that time will come. But the need to have a sense that my life changed the world - yes, a thousand times yes.

But I also want to ask you - though I don't have any expectation that you will necessarily want to answer - what you're doing about your depression. Depression is a vile state of being, and while no one I know is free of it entirely - even my very sunny friends have cloudy moments - yours has been going on for a long time, and it is significantly interfering in your ability to live your life the way you want to, enjoy your activities, and be in relationship the way you want to. At least, that's how it sounds from what I read - I apologize profusely if I am reading it wrong.

Depression is, to me, as I've said before, the spiritual/emotional analogue of nausea: it may not be lethal, but it affects everything, and is bad in ways that straight-forward pain cannot dream of being bad.

You say that you are depressed. You also describe yourself in such a way that you /sound/ very depressed a lot of the time. So, you know, I worry a bit. I like to hope that this is something you've put conscious thought into, and that there are things you are doing which are directly and deliberately targeted at reducing your depression.

Because, you know, you deserve to feel better than this. It's not a right - not in America, where having a right means feeling entitled to sit back and demand that somebody provide - and we don't, in general, end up getting everything we deserve in life, good or bad. But I think it's important to remember that, whatever you can actually achieve, you do deserve to feel better than this, and it is--altogether fitting and proper--that you should take steps to make it happen.

[zephyrious.livejournal.com]

Entries like this one are a large part of why I read your journal. I feel less alone knowing that someone else, a real person, struggles with similar concerns. I don't know any answers any more than you do, probably less. I hope you reach a good place, a satisfying resolution, for you.

The story you outlined reminds me of The Red Queen by Margaret Drabble. It's not that story, not the same at all, but deals with the some of the same questions in a different manner.

[diony.livejournal.com]

Why is it that when I most want words to come, I have to struggle so hard for them?

Peg, think of all the people who came here because they found your words in the novels you have published and have stayed because they want to read about your life, about what you think and feel and do each day. If your journal disappeared, if you quit writing here, I for one would very much notice and feel pained, because reading your words adds to my days. If I could instead have bound volumes of your diaries, the way that I do of Dora Carrington and Fanny Burney, I would jump for that in an instant, because then I would have your words and they'd never go away.

I hope you find your way through this and out the other side, to the place you want to be.

In the meantime, I second and third those who are asking about your depression. Is it being treated?

[kk1raven.livejournal.com]

Am I not working on the book because I am depressed, or am I depressed because I am not working on the book?

I don't think that's an either/or question. Maybe the answer to it is that both are true. Depression tends to be a viscious cycle. Being depressed tends to make you not do the things you enjoy or want to accomplish and not doing them tends to make you feel depressed. And I don't think you're making lame excuses for laziness or lack of talent. The books you've already written show you have talent, and from what you say of your activities, I certainly couldn't apply the word lazy to you.

If I were you I'd put the ice palace book aside until it feels right to work on it again. If writing sonnets feels like the right thing to do now, write sonnets. Sonnets certainly have value too. If not writing anything for publication feels right, then don't worry about not writing anything for publication. Trying to force it probably won't make things better and simply giving it up doesn't sound like what you really want either. Letting it wait is a valid choice in my opinion.

We're all made up of many parts, and writing is one of your parts. Our various parts tend to come to the fore and sink to the background over time though, in a constantly changing matrix of who we are.