Jim Wood: What I learned about writing

We sat in the room on little white chairs around the circle. I spoke first.

“All right, fictional characters from my novel. Agnes, stop playing the piano on your legs. Pay attention. Most of you are wondering why I’ve brought you here. Norman, Siobhan, you didn’t like it very much when I teleported you from 1930s Philadelphia to 2011 San Francisco to ask you about ‘the best feeling in the world.’ But I had a purpose.”

The whole group looked out the window at motley Victorian houses, fog rolling down the hill, and blue-gray Toyota Priuses driving by. They gasped, realizing they’d been transported eighty years into the future and three thousand miles across the continent.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve invited you here today to thank you for teaching me how to write. You’ve also taught me how to think clearly, but most of all, you’ve taught me how to do what I love best.”

I looked at my heroine, so pretty with her red hair, freckles, and green eyes. “Agnes Limerick, you’ve taught me to be bold and daring and to take risks. If you didn’t know it already, you’re my alter ego and you’re the main character of my novel.”

“I don’t believe it,” blurted out Norman, “I thought I was the main character.”

“You know, Norman,” I said, exasperated with him, and not for the first time. “I was tempted to make you little more than Agnes’s sex toy. But after doing this round robin session, I learned you’re the insecure overachiever who has to be the center of attention. There are lots of those in the world, you know. And you’re not half bad.”

“Watch it, mister, I work hard to be the best I can.”

“That might be, but as your punishment, go down 18th Street to that place called ‘Badlands’ and dance in your underwear. They’re gonna like you there. Mind you, don’t go hooking up with anyone. I’m saving you for myself tonight, you hunk-a-hunk-a-burnin’-love.”

Cristina whooped up a little noise from her throat. “Cristina, everyone needs someone like you to point out that enjoying life is the highest achievement. Just be a little more careful about having sex with other women's husbands."

Agnes cocked her head to her best friend. “Cristina, what does he mean by that?”

Brian Larney giggled but I continued. “And Brian, you’re the counterpoint for Norman, the marvelous piano teacher who gets to live with Agnes after I make her a World War II widow.”
“What?” asked Norman, “You’re killing me off?”

Collin Doherty interrupted. “Why does Brian get Agnes in the end?”

“Monsignor Doherty, Brian doesn’t ‘get’ Agnes. Love isn’t a possession, it’s a quality of thought. Don’t forget, Father Collin, Brian is a gay man – just like you are, except you never acted on it –“

“I am not a homosexual,” harrumphed Collin. “How dare you make such a claim.”

“Well, I’m the author, so yes you are. I’ve tried to respect your religious choices, Father Collin, but try to remember you’re dealing with a power higher than God. After all, he didn’t transport you eighty years into the future. I did.”

This was a mistake, bringing the men together. They (and their egos) have given me nothing but headaches. Having finished with them, I wanted to address my matriarchs, all four of them.

"Siobhan Limerick and Georgianna Balmoral, you taught me there are so many ways to look at faith and family. I modeled you on two of my great-grandmothers – or, at least, what I thought they were like – and I discovered that Irish Catholic fanatics and Victorian grande dames have a lot in common. They just want their children to be safe.”

I looked at my only African-American character and felt an immediate sense of peace. "Gracie Honeywalker, you’ve weathered the years beautifully. You taught me to persevere in the most difficult of situations. You escaped from slavery in 1850s Kentucky and led a fulfilled life in upstate New York. Even if you were poor, you depended on no one but yourself. You taught me that grace comes from within, not from without.”

“Thanks, Mr. God. You hear what he says, Miz Agnes? Grace comes from inside here.” Gracie patted her heart.

“Oh, poo,” trumpeted Annie Kate Limerick. “All this emotional talk is giving me gas. You learn by doing, not by talking. Let’s have something to eat. I’m starving.”

“Thanks, Granny. How could I ever live without you?”

“Ah, Agnes,” I said, a sob catching my throat. “That’s just what I learned from you and Granny the most. You’ll do just fine without her. And I’ll do just fine without my mother, whenever God takes her back – the real God, not me the writer.”