Lizzie Borden, process, Uncategorized, Walk
Leave a Comment

How Not To Kill Your Darlings

In the lead-up to my child’s birth, I’d set myself the task to finish yet another draft of my manuscript and send it out to a publisher. I had already written five, six or more drafts over seven years about the Lizzie Borden case. Now that I was pregnant the current drafting felt different, urgent: I had convinced myself that if I didn’t finish it then and there I never would. Writer friends who were parents warned me that once the baby came, I’d have no time for anything else. The brain would no longer have the capacity to move beyond itself. I may not even know who I was.

I felt like I’d been handed a creative and self-identity death sentence. I must finish before the child comes. But life ignores timelines. The pregnancy progressed. I struggled with character development and scenes, struggled to find narrative movement, struggled to recall words, struggled to sit still. I despised my former self for being a lazy writer, for not being prolific, for not being good enough at the craft. I reasoned that if I had been better, I’d be finished by now. I wrote and struggled and the pregnancy progressed.

The child arrived at the beginning of winter. The manuscript went unfinished. As I tried to figure out how to live with a newborn and to stop feelings of new-parent isolation from becoming too overwhelming, two things happened at once: the compulsion to write, to get back to the primacy of self, story, and words became stronger than ever, and yet I couldn’t relate to the manuscript that had consumed me for years. Words stopped forming. I no longer knew how to write.

In the past I would physically move myself through the novel, take long walks to figure out the narrative problems I was having. This process of writing has (almost) always worked for me. One morning when my child was sleeping, I made another attempt at drafting the manuscript but couldn’t sink into it. I looked out the lounge window, watched winter sun hit the pavement and thought about the way that type of heat creeps under skin. In that moment it occurred to me that physicality could help me again. I woke my child, strapped her to my body, grabbed my notebook and went outside. I would walk until something came. All I could manage that day was to write observations yet words formed freely and I was happy.

The thing with small children is that people want to inhale them, orbit their small bodies and discover what they’re made of. They will come for you. The more I walked, the more I encountered people, mostly elderly women. They all wanted to see the child. ‘They smell good, don’t they?’ Yes, I’d say.

‘My girl was a terrible sleeper,’ said one.

‘Do you breastfeed? We were told not to,’ said another.

‘I wanted to be a career woman but that’s not how things were done in my day.’

‘Is this your first? You’re old to be starting.’ I was only thirty-three at the time.

People and their opinions. People and their stories.  Most days, instead of writing while I was out I was having random conversations. Having a small child usually meant that I could no longer simply walk past strangers even if I wanted to. Instead I was being asked to walk through their back door and watch them relive a past. The more I listened, the more I wrote at night in my notebook, tried to capture everything people told me. They became characters and those characters developed needs and wants.

I met the woman who reignited See What I Have Done along a mud-squelch track in the middle of the parklands. Magpies sung the morning, small insects flew into my mouth and nose, tickled some. My child thrashed tiny legs into my stomach, uncomfortable. The woman wore a red coat. The only colour in a grey landscape, she stood out. She snaked toward me, scratched her wrinkled cheek before stretching her arm for tiny legs, gave a little tug.

‘What a little strong thing.’ Her voice a coo, that high pitched sound of being in love with something new. ‘I bet you give your mum a hard time,’ she laughed, gave tiny legs another tug.

‘Certainly does,’ I said. ‘It’s hard sometimes.’

The woman nodded and we spoke for five minutes about the weather, about the mundane daily rituals involved in parenting, the boredom. The absolute wonder. She told me she painted. I told her I was a writer. ‘It’s hard at the moment.’

‘Don’t worry about a child getting in your way.’ She looked at me and in that cooing tone, said, ‘I still remember the night I wanted to kill my son. He’s forty now. Certain feelings pass, you know. It won’t be hard forever.’ She stroked the tiny legs again and walked on, leaving me in the parklands with the magpies and insects and my baby.

The ordinariness of her experience. What she had sparked in me. I rushed home with that child kicking against my stomach, wrote furious in my notebook, kept on writing until the words ‘Lizzie Borden will kiss her father’s brutalised head’ appeared on the page. My character doing such an ordinary act with her dead father hadn’t occurred to me before then. It felt right.

I had finally made my way back to the manuscript. This chance encounter with the woman reminded me that detours in your creative life, such as having children, will happen. Even those feelings of isolation, of no longer knowing yourself can pass overtime. The point is to recognise that although the act of living as two selves (parent and writer) both severely enriches and detracts from your creativity, using this experience and accepting the gift of the ordinary will make fictional lives sing loudest on the page. Your project may slow down but it’s never going to go away. And you will finish it.

 

This article originally appeared here at Overland. I recommend you head on over there and check them out, subscribe to the print journal or even consider donating. 

This entry was posted in: Lizzie Borden, process, Uncategorized, Walk

by

writer, observer, reader, procrastinator. My debut novel, See What I Have Done, published by Hachette (ANZ), Tinder Press (UK), Grove Atlantic (US), Piper Verlag (German), Editions Payot & Rivages (French), Hollands Diep (Dutch), Edizioni Piemme (Italian), GW Foksal (Polish), Palto Publishing (Turkish), MunhakDongne (Korean) SEE WHAT I HAVE DONE (Awards and Some Praise) WINNER OF THE ABIA LITERARY FICTION OF THE YEAR 2018 WINNER OF THE MUD LITERARY AWARD 2018 Longlisted for the Women's Prize for Fiction 2018 Shortlisted for the Indie Book Award for Debut Fiction 2018 Shortlisted for the Strand Critics Awards for Best First Novel Longlisted for the ABIA Matt Richell Award for New Writers 2018 For the originality of its voice and the power of its language and imagery, See What I Have Done deserves to be considered a Gothic classic - THE SATURDAY PAPER See What I Have Done is a meticulously researched and boldly imagined book that crackles with tension throughout. Schmidt's portrayal of Lizzie is haunting and complex, a deeply psychological portrait that forces the reader to question their preconceptions about what women are capable of - for better and worse. Both disturbing and gripping, it is an outstanding debut novel about love, death and the lifelong repercussions of unresolved grief. - The Observer Schmidt is a consummate storyteller whose account of the Borden murders is utterly compelling. - Australian Book Review Schmidt's writing is rich and confident, painting a vivid portrait of a household with something rotten at its core. It's a strong debut that promises much from an original and compelling new voice in Australian literature. - The Guardian There are books about murder and there are books about imploding families; this is the rare novel that seamlessly weaves the two together, asking as many questions as it answers. - Kirkus Reviews [An] unforgettable debut ... Equally compelling as a whodunit, 'whydunit,' and historical novel. - Publishers Weekly Heralds the arrival of a major new talent ... Nail-biting horror mixes with a quiet, unforgettable power to create a novel readers will stay up all night finishing. - Booklist This novel is like a crazy murdery fever dream, swirling around the day of the murders. Schmidt has written not just a tale of a crime, but a novel of the senses. There is hardly a sentence that goes by without mention of some sensation, whether it’s a smell or a sound or a taste, and it is this complete saturation of the senses that enables the novel to soak into your brain and envelope you in creepy uncomfortableness. It’s a fabulous, unsettling book. —Book Riot Eerie and compelling, Sarah Schmidt breathes such life into the terrible, twisted tale of Lizzie Borden and her family, she makes it impossible to look away. —Paula Hawkins, author of The Girl on the Train

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s