On Writing Struggles

     When I was in school sometimes I had to write about something in order to understand it (think economic theory here). That has also been true in my relationships. Often if I have been upset about something, it doesn't matter if it is something important or something trivial, if I write about it, like in a letter, I can figure out why it is I am feeling the way I am feeling. It is easier to see the ideas which simply aren't true, and which ideas are really important. And then, once I have figured it out, I can face that problem head on and handle it.
     There is a story I have been struggling to tell since I was 9 years old. It is the story of how I came to be in the middle of a war in Nigeria, West Africa. Before my parents passed away they gave me all of their documents from that period. I have binders full of letters my father wrote to my mother, letters my mother wrote to her family, running notes from their research, essays they wrote years later, receipts, passports, and even my father's testimony before congress. There is plenty of fodder for this story, and yet I have continued to struggle with writing this story.
     One day I was driving to school on I-475 and the story flashed before me in movie form. I decided at that point that I should write it  as a screenplay and someone (God only knows who) would make it into the movie and the story would finally be told. The fact that I don't know anything about writing a screenplay, or getting someone to make it into a movie wasn't going to stop me. If I wrote it, somehow it would work itself out. So then I dove straight into the deep and murky waters of how to write a screenplay and from time to time, I work on it.
     A couple of weeks ago I happened across a post on my facebook feed about a movie which is to be released soon. "Half of a Yellow Sun" is based on a novel written by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. She is a wonderful author from Enugu, Nigeria. I am pretty sure her father was a student of my father. I suddenly felt as though all my years of work (albeit spotty work) was for naught. Here, someone has already made a movie about that conflict, so now what am I to do? My mother told me, "You are going to have to write this story", and I just didn't know what to do.
     Then last night the strangest thing happened. Again, I was looking at my facebook feed and I stumbled across a link to  Ted Talks with Chimamanda Adichie. At first I was hesitant to look at it at all, but then I decided I should see what this woman, who had done what I only "worked on", had to say. And what she said made me sure that I need to both finish the screenplay and write the book or books. "The danger of a single story" is why I need to write it.
     My father spent the better part of seven years, much of the time away from his family, to bring higher education to the Nigerians. Even as a 7 year old child, I felt guilt and shame at being white and privileged. Those feelings only grew over the years. But those feelings were unwarranted. He didn't dedicate those years to making the Nigerians "more like us" but to making the tools available so that the Nigerians could be more of who they were - a people for whom he had a great love and respect. His mistake was taking sides in a political struggle where the odds were stacked against those that he championed. And me, I was just a little girl doing her best to get through the 4th grade.

Flash fiction

The Phone Call

She reached for a towel to dry her hands before she picked up the ringing telephone.

“Hello,” she said as she reached over to turn off the hot water running into the sink. There was a lag and a crackle on the line and then,

“Mags, sweetheart?” asked a British man’s voice.

“Hey, Ronnie! Where are you guys?” responded the tall, lithe brunette.

“We’re in Osaka" he replied.

Her face broke into a smile as she leaned up against the kitchen wall in her apartment. They had been friends for about ten years, since she sang back-up on his debut album.  A few years later Ron had introduced her to his new drummer, Vic, and they had fallen madly in love.  Ron had been best man at their wedding almost five years ago.  They were the perfect couple for almost five years, but the stress of their careers had taken a toll on their relationship and she had moved into her own place about two months ago. The divorce would be final in another six weeks, and even though the marriage hadn’t worked out, they were all still very close friends.

“Are you taking good care of my soon to be ex-husband?” she asked.

“Well, luv,” he began, “that’s why I’m calling.”

There was a tone in his normally lilting voice she didn’t like.

“Pete is coming by with the limo to take you to the airport so you can come on over. You can pick up your tickets at the counter…”

She slid down the wall and could see herself sitting on the floor in the reflection of the sliding glass door. Something was terribly wrong.

“Ron,” she interrupted, “what’s happened to Vic?”

“Sweetheart, I don’t know how to tell you this…Vic collapsed after we played your song last night and we had to bring him to hospital.” His voice was cracking with emotion. She was suddenly aware of noises in the background, hospital noises.

“Ronnie…?” she began, but couldn’t finish.

“I’m so sorry, luv, but Vic had a massive heart attack and…” she could hear him sobbing on the other end of a call from half way around the world. There were muffled voices, but no one was talking to her.  She was stunned. This couldn’t be right, he was only thirty five and in great shape.  She sat staring at her own reflection in the sliding glass door, unable to think, dazed.  Time stood still.

“Mags? It’s Lou.” Their road manager came on the line. “Sweetie, you’ve gotta come over here and handle the legal stuff so we can bring Vic home. Baby, are you there?”

“Yeah, Lou, I’m here…” she choked out.

“The consulate says you’ve gotta sign the release so we can bring the body home.”

“Oh my god….Okay.” was all she could say.

Tears were streaming down the face in the reflection in the sliding glass doors as the silver stretch limo pulled up outside. As she watched the driver get out she realized that her life had just completely changed. Suddenly she realized she was looking at the reflection of a widow.