Beginnings

“My own experience is that once a story has been written, one has to cross out the beginning and the end. It is there that we authors do most of our lying” - Anton Chekhov.

"Love your work, Anton."

I am currently in my second week of a creative writing masters and, fittingly, we're studying beginnings. I thought that I'd pretty much come to a locked-in decision about my beginning – simple, to the point, setting up Dasha's earliest life and memories – but now I think I might have been wrong. A very clever man who I won't name, because I'm sure he has enough on his plate without being inundated with pleas for advice, suggested that I start the story in the middle of Dasha's first dramatic happening; in this case, her frostbitten fingers and Lilia's unsympathetic ministering. Okay, I thought, this is good stuff. But then again, where does this practice stop? If we were to start everything at the most dramatic point, what would happen to all the lovely in between bits that build subtleties in the characters? Where are those sometimes boring backgrounds that you need to turn a character from an idea into a possible entity?

Beginning just sounds too ominous. There's too much pressure to begin something well. Perhaps instead we should call them points of departure. I'd like to take the opportunity to quote from Gabriel Garcia Marquez on the matter of his departures. After all, anything I can say he could say better:

“I start with a visual image. For other writers, I think, a book is born out of an idea, a concept. I always start with an image. Tuesday Siesta, which I consider my best short story, grew out of seeing a woman and a young girl dressed in black with a black umbrella walking through a deserted town in the scorching sun. In Leaf Storm, it’s an old man taking his grandson to a funeral. The point of departure for Nobody Writes to the Colonel was the image of a man waiting for a launch in the market-place in Barranquilla. He was waiting with a kind of silent anxiety. Years later in Paris I found myself waiting for a letter, a money order probably – with the same anxiety and I identified with the memory of that man” - from The Fragrance of Guava : Plinio Apuleyo Mendoza in Conversation with Gabriel Garcia Marquez pp26-27.

Lara S.

Inspiration

I've been stuck over the past week for something to write about. The novel is still going strong, the characters are learning and loving and losing, but I can't put my finger on what exactly has propelled me in this activity. Perhaps it's the first week of university throwing me off (that's right, I've FINALLY started classes). Either way, I decided that the best way to move forward would actually be to take a step back and explore my inspirations. Below are six of my most favourite books by six of the most fabulous authors currently working and all of them have had a huge impact on my style of writing. For one thing, they all write about my most common subject: the dysfunctional family.

1.

Gerard Woodward - I'll Go To Bed at Noon

 

I first read this book in 2007 while studying at Sheffield University and its portrayal of a family in crisis almost broke my heart. Woodward has a beautiful sense of comedic tragedy which softened the altogether soul destroying narrative but what I remember most isn't the sadness or loss. It's the strength of stubborn family love through almost insurmountable odds. 

2.

E. Annie Proulx - The Shipping News

 

Annie Proulx, I hear you all sigh. An obvious choice but an important one none the less. I read this book in 2003 during high school and have reread it almost every year since then. Proulx writes absolutely miserable stories but I chose The Shipping News because it shows a man rebuilding a family from the shreds of one long lost. There is hope within the hurt and the promise that family is something that can be recovered.

3. 

Gail Anderson-Dargatz - The Cure for Death by Lightning 

This book is particularly special as it was the basis of my third year creative writing degree thesis in 2008. I'd never heard of Dargatz before stumbling into my local second hand book store and seeing the cover (yes, I do judge books by their covers) but discovering her writing was a blessing. This book is shocking and brutally upsetting but it's an excellent example of family crimes that allow no redemption and roads that once walked can not be swept clean.

4. 

A. M. Homes - Music for Torching

Another discovery in 2007 at Sheffield University, Music for Torching is an unusual book and one I didn't really understand until the final page. It navigates a family tragedy before it occurs, delicately describing the joys and disappointments that lead to a truly heart-breaking calamity.

5.

Miriam Toews - A Complicated Kindness

I have one of my lecturers at Wollongong University to thank for this rare discovery in 2008. This book is so poignantly written that I immediately went out and bought her entire opus. Unfortunately, her other books weren't as memorable but A Complicated Kindness remains one of the books that most shaped my writing style. Its protagonist watches as her family abandon her one by one and the strength and shame of this character is a touching mix.

6.

Tim Winton - Cloudstreet

This is a controversial choice as readers tend to either love or hate this book. I loved it. From the first moment I read it in 2004 I thought it was one of the most beautiful family sagas ever written. Few other novels manage to capture such a large breadth of time while staying so true to the characters within those years. I can only hope my book, spanning three decades, comes close to such honesty.

Now I want to hear from you, my readers. What are the books that shaped you? Are there any on my list you agree with? Maybe we could have a mouthy debate over one or two of them? Share your novel soul with me and I'll meet you half way.

Lara S.

Love Part Four - The Father

This, I promise, is the final post regarding the men of Dasha's life. I saved the saddest for last - Dasha's father who, as you already know, goes unnamed throughout the entire book. He only actively participates in a handful of scenes throughout the first half and after he dies Dasha mentions him in confession but never to either Sam or Lilia. It may seem like he disappears from their immediate lives but really he remains as an invisible force holding his wife and daughter together through strings of memory, responsibility and guilt. I haven't said much about his personality (because frankly Dasha doesn't remember a whole lot about it) but I can expand on his professional appearance.

He is a botanist and the biography in his first book, titled Sub-dependence in Climbing Tubers, would read as follows:

“Father Unnamed” studied at London College and received his PhD from the University of Greenwich in 1976. His first paper, Rhizome Interaction and Cultivation, was published in The British and Foreign Horticulture Journal and won the Distinguished Economic Botanist Award in 1979. He teaches botany studies at Birkbeck college and lives with his wife and daughter in Staines.

See what I did there? He teaches rhizomes and acts as a rhizome for his family.

There is one scene from the book that I'd like to include in this post; it's the perfect example of the awkward relationship between the three members of my imaginary family and the almost accidental care this father feels for Dasha.

For her ninth birthday, Dasha's father relented from his schedule and took her and Lilia to London Zoo. They went first to the elephants. Rushing right past the gift stores with their stuffed and dead-eyed offerings.

-Such a bad smell.- Lilia turned away from the enclosure, straightening the umbrella Dasha held to block the sun. -I don't think it's right to have such big animals near people. What if they got out? They could destroy half the village.-

Dasha looked up at her father. Ignoring Lilia.

-Did you know that the grass they're eating is called elephant grass?-

Shook her head.

-Well it is. And do you know why?- Talking around Lilia's sighs. -Because it's an elephant's favourite food. And so tall.- Pointing toward a wooden trough where ten-foot blades of grass dangled exhausted to the dirt. -And those flowers growing in the tree branches. They're bee orchids. Can you see, they look like bees. When a real bee goes to say hello, they get pollen all over their body. The next flower they go to, poof.- Clicking fingers. -They leave the pollen there and more flowers can grow. It's interesting because the flower doesn't even need the bee. It's just a little bit of extra help.-

Dasha swayed at the responsibility a bee carried with it. Those fat-hipped bumble bees that bumped against her ankles like they would give way in honeyed strings. Voices like rolling coins close to her ear.

-I think I will stay over there,- Lilia intervened. To her husband, -make sure she doesn't burn.- Dasha watched her retreat into the white and brown walls of a cafe. She would make one cup of black tea last until they had walked the entire zoo around.

-Why doesn't she want to come?- Dasha asked her father as they moved from the elephants to the giraffes. One lone adult with bent neck.

-Don't worry about Mum. She doesn't like animals very much. That's why she makes me kill the mice that get under the floor.- Leaning close in conspiracy. -I think she's a little scared.-

-Of a mouse?-

-Even elephants are scared of mice.-

Dasha couldn't imagine an elephant confronting Lilia. -Is that why we don't have any pets? Other girls bring photos of kittens into school for show and tell.- Kittens clutched to chests. Pink tongues like startled moles.

-We used to have a bird. When you were a baby.-

Dasha couldn't recall the presence of any creatures in her home. -What kind of bird?-

-A finch. He had tiny little wings. I used to feed him sunflower seeds and your mum hated the mess he made.-

-What was his name?-

He picked up an acorn. Rolled it around until its hat toppled. -You know, I can't remember.-

Lara S.

Love Part Three - The Russian

Of all the characters I've ever written, Aleksandr Babikov is by far my favourite. He's Dasha's uncle, Lilia's brother, living in Russia until the end of the first half of the book. Lilia sends for him after a particularly nasty situation arises between her and Dasha and his arrival heralds a whole new lifestyle for both of them. Dasha loves him instantly but of course that would mean her life had gained an element of happiness. Does that sound like something I'd write for her? The whole point of Dasha's upbringing is to leave her unsatisfied, thus propelling her to confront the option of the memory manipulation. I'm not a total dog – Dasha deserves hope for a loving family. Aleksandr is that hope. And he also looks like Richard Griffiths.

Aleksandr moved into her father's disused study. Lilia had pushed a single bed frame and spring mattress against the far wall. Apart from a three-foot bookshelf and the desk Dasha once sat beneath, the room was empty. Aleksandr threw it a cursory glance before swinging his cases onto the bed. Dasha watched from the top of the hall stairs. Her eyes burned when he held a hand to the wood of the desk.

For supper, Lilia made a dish Dasha had never seen before.

-Bitochki,- Aleksandr crooned when she spilled some onto his plate. -I was expecting some kind of this fast food. French fries and bread.-

Lilia scowled. -We don't eat that here. It's bad enough with Dasha's school dinners. At least she will eat well when she is at home.-

At school, Dasha only ate the plates of potato, vegetables and pasta but Lilia refused to believe that her daughter would fail to take advantage of the grease-traps.

-You like your mother's cooking?-

Dasha put a piece of meat on her tongue, round flavour of onion and sour cream, and nodded. She did. Had always loved it. Lilia gave a stiff smile.

After supper Aleksandr reclined in his brother-in-law's arm chair, Dasha curled on the floor near his feet; Lilia replaced crockery with coffee brewing at her back. Dasha showed Aleksandr the best of her charcoal drawings; he held up a sketch of a daffodil in half bloom.

-This must be my favourite. So bold. Velikolepnyi.-

Dasha had never heard her mother's language before. It was harsh, like stones being forced together. -Uncle Alex, can you teach me some Russian?-

Aleksandr arched his back, rubbing one hand across his bulging stomach. A button was missing at the bottom of his shirt. -Of course, darling. What do you know already?-

-Well, nothing.-

-Nothing? You mean your mother has taught you nothing?- He looked over at the kitchen door. As if in answer, Lilia stacked the plates slightly louder.

-No.-

-But she still makes this Russian food? Our own mother with canned soup and burgers and here Lilia jellies her own chocolate.-

-She says that English food will kill you.-

-She has taught you to cook?-

-Yeah. She just doesn't want me to learn the language.-

-Lilia,- Aleksandr rumbled when she backed into the room carrying thick slices of apple charlotte. He smacked his lips before continuing. -What is this I hear? Dasha knows nothing of Russian?-

-You forget, Alexi,- she said slowly, -that I came here to be English.-

-Ahh, glupyi. You will always be a Russian. Take a look at yourself. At what you eat.-

Lilia's lips thinned in a way Dasha recognised. -It isn't easy here. Dasha is better off knowing only English. Better off not standing out.- She returned to the kitchen and Aleksandr shouted after her.

-She is beautiful. Every man she ever meets will be enchanted. She will always stand out.-

Lilia didn't answer and Aleksandr put both hands on his knees, leaning toward Dasha. She gravitated nearer. -She was not always like this, my sister,- he whispered. -Used to be proud of Russia. Proud to be Russian. She was a koroleva.-

-She was what?-

-It means 'queen'. You should have seen her when she met your papa. Magnificent. Brought him to eat with us, taught him to speak. Wanted to stay in Moscow. He would have made a great Russian.-

-They met in Russia?-

-Yes. At Sokolniki Park in Moscow.-

-Mum said they met here in London.-

Aleksandr blinked and sat back in the armchair. -What lies she has told.-

Lilia came back with a mug and an unlabelled bottle of clear liquid.

-At last, vodka,- Aleksandr crowed. Dasha started to say something to her mother but caught Aleksandr shake his head infinitesimally. She understood.

-I'm going to bed.- She kissed her mother's cheek, a thing she hadn't done since primary school. It was hot under her lips. Aleksandr patted her jaw and creaked open the bottle cap. Lilia had slipped slices of strawberry inside. For Aleksandr's coming.

From the hallway she heard Lilia ask, -will you come to church tomorrow, Alexi?-

-It has been a long time.-

-It would be good for Dasha.-

No hesitation. -Then I will come.-

-Spasibo.-

What else do you really need to know?

Lara S.