A Rose by Any Other Name

Names are a funny thing. I’ve been responsible for the names of four cats and three cars, with the agreement of my husband of course, and I’m fairly smug about these choices. I’ve also given my characters names, but often they are taken from the person who inspired the story.

For the story I’m writing now, it was inspired by my mother, but it doesn’t feel right to name the main character after my mom. So I turned to my family tree for some inspiration.

I’m lucky enough to have my family information going back to 1807. It’s fascinating.

Italians use a naming tradition where the first boy is named after paternal grandfather, first girl – paternal grandmother. After four kids, the generation before is satisfied. From there, you’re on your own. Also, Saint Rocco was the patron saint of the town, so every family had at least one Rocco (that’s my dad’s name) and, of course, a few Marias for good measure.

My family certainly held up this tradition. But then it gets a bit weird. If a child died, they reused the name.

There was a lot of tragedy in these families, infant mortality was high. My great grandmother had 13 children. 7 lived past infancy. Maria Maddalena was born on February 24, 1877, she died on May 4, 1877. Her sister born on March 1, 1881 was given the same name. In that same family, there were 3 boys named Francesco (the first 2 died, the third lived to 94). It is a recurring theme through the records.

It’s heartbreaking and something that most of us would find hard to fathom. I like to think of it as a tribute to the lost child combined with a mind boggling practicality (“It’s a perfectly good name, we should re-use it”).

Going through these records, suddenly, my own name makes more sense. My name is a bit of a family controversy – well, at least it is for my mother. 44 and a half years later and she’s still pissed about my name. She had wanted to name me after her sister Rosa, my father had other ideas. So instead of being Rosalia (or as I recently found out, Rosantonia – I told her that would not have been cool), I was named Maria Antonietta. That’s fine, but my sister’s name is Maria Anna (important note, she’s very much alive).

I’ve always joked that I was kid number five and girl number four, they had run out of grandparents to name me after, they were tired and had given up. Now it all makes sense. Looking at these records, it was not so weird to have 3 living kids named Maria or Rocco, never mind being named after one that had passed away.

Based on the fact that my sister had already taken Maria (or in her case, Mary Ann) and that my mother was none too happy,  I have never been called Maria and forget about being called Antonietta. So I am Etta, and, quite naturally, it is not pronounced the way it is spelled. I swear that there has always been so much confusion around my name, that if I were given a polygraph test and was asked “What’s your name?” I would fail.

My character needed a truly special name. One that was hers alone. Amongst the confusion of my ancestors, I did manage to find one that stood out:  Serafina, which  means “burning one” or “burning passion”. Now that she has a name, she needs a full story.

Next week, a history lesson.

A tap on the shoulder

Writing my first entry for this blog after 2 years of silence actually got me to write again. While making a commitment to the world (yes, that’s right, the world) that I would be accountable and post weekly helped me to get started, it was the great support that I received immediately after posting that really got me going. I was inspired by the encouragement. To everyone who liked my last post or left me a comment, thank you, you really made a difference.

This past week I got to work on a short story that has been floating in my mind for the past 2 years. I mapped out the course of the story and figured out the plot points. For me, this is the neatest part of the process but also where I struggle. I hold myself back with this deep-seated belief that I must not be following the exact steps I’m supposed to take to be a “proper” writer. In essence, if it flows too easily, it must be crap. Actually, it’s that kind of thinking that’s crap. Every time I fight that ridiculous notion and just let the “oh my God, yes” moments happen, I am able to figure out how to make things progress and I get the best results.

Once I let the story flow, what I really enjoyed is that after I put my notebook down, my main character didn’t just stay put on page. She took root in my mind. I found that at moments when I would normally be lost in space, she was there, tapping me on the shoulder saying,  “Hey, could you give me a name?” or “Hey, use that Italian insult!” or simply, “Hey, don’t you dare forget about me!” She’s kind of bossy.

This went on for the better part of the week, giving me great ideas (I wish I had written a few of them down), until my brain became addled with a bad cold. Unfortunately, in my current state (my sister called me slack jawed at least twice today) it seems all I can manage is to successfully master the netty pot and make it to the next dose of Dristan. But, when I shut down after this post, I will open up my notebook and jot down what I can remember from before the decongestant fog rolled in. If I don’t, I’ll have to put up with her (she really needs a name) interrupting me during meetings or keeping me up at night. She has come alive for me, now I have to tell her story.

I won’t be able to post the story for quite some time. For a very long time now, I’ve wanted to enter the CBC short story contest, but surprise, surprise, never got around to actually writing something for it. One of the contest rules is that the story cannot be published anywhere in advance, not even online, so she’ll have to live in my notebook until after the contest closes. Next week I promise to tell you her name – that way she can move on to bug me about something else.

 

Time to write

This month marks my 22nd year in the full time work force. Yikes. I’ve had a varied career, with interesting job changes every 2 to 3 years. I’ve been in management positions, but haven’t progressed to gain a title of “director” or “senior manager” and all the “prestige” that come with it. The question is, should that bother me?

NO.

It came up in conversation earlier this week, and I wondered if that’s what was leaving me with a sense of dissatisfaction. I quickly realized, it isn’t what I want. What really grates on me is that I have the idea for at least 2 books in my head and I’ve done nothing to get them written. Instead they sit in the cobwebs in my head.

I’m a writer – an honest to goodness professional writer. Up until a couple of months ago, I was paid a nice annual salary to write. As a professional communicator, it was the part of my job that people could easily understand (by the way, there is a whole lot more that goes into being a communicator – don’t get me started). It was the part of my job that earned me the highest praise. And while I’ve written the words for a lot of impressive corporate people, I haven’t put the time and effort into my own words.

Life is busy and life is crazy. Lately it has included the learning curve of a new job, parents who need more support, a house under constant renovation and a strong desire  to be far skinnier healthier than I am now. Regardless, I will never be truly satisfied professionally until I commit and pursue telling my stories.

There’s another truth that I hate to face. My mom is an extraordinary story teller.  I love when we sit during our Sunday visits and she tells us about her antics  – like how she would tie the shawls together of the little old widows as they stood to watch the annual religious processions. When I suggest she could live another 20 years, she actually gets annoyed with me. There is nothing I want more than to hand her a book – I don’t care how it is published – that is inspired by her awesomeness.

So it starts today. No, I’m not quitting my job to write the great Canadian novel. Please, have you seen the plans for our backyard renovation? But I  am restarting this blog to keep me honest. I started this blog TWO years ago to document my progress. Um, yeah, not a whole lot of progress to report.  From now on, I will be posting weekly updates where I chronicle what I’ve been up and will post a short story of 2 along the way on my other blog: http://www.talestrailstravels.blogspot.ca

If you want to help me on this journey – to prod me and encourage me – I would love to have you along.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to search for a short story contest to enter.

 

 

My mother’s gift – a family history

My mother and her sister Rosa

It’s fitting that I’ve returned to my research for my novel just as demonstrations are rocking Egypt. Maybe the uprising and uncertainty about their future is what inspired me. That and the fact that my library book is seriously overdue.

My novel is set in Southern Italy and parallels the rise and rule of Mussolini through to the start of World War II. As I read, I can’t help but think of what’s happening in Egypt – though there are enormous differences. But where my mind lingers is on my mother and her stories, which inspires my novel. Though, it won’t be biographical by any means. The plot is hinged on the melding of two of her distant relatives and their life experiences. I won’t give it away – you can go on the book tour to learn more.

But I digress.

My mother has told me family stories my whole life. I’ve always loved them but I also took them for granted. Didn’t everyone have a grandfather who escaped from an Austrian work camp during WWI? Wasn’t it normal for a five-year-old to walk from “la campagnia” to their home village six or seven kilometres away, up steep mountain roads? Didn’t other Canadian kids have a steel wedding band that belonged to their grandmother? One that replaced the gold band Mussolini “officials” took to finance a war in Ethiopia?

It wasn’t until these last few years that I recognized what a gift my mother’s stories are. My family has an unbelievable history. My grandfather was a trouble maker and a fighter of fascists, but I didn’t learn that at his knee. By the time I was born, he was already a crusty old man. He didn’t quite earn that title of “Grandpa”. Although he was part of my life for 11 years, I never got to know him, except through my mother’s stories. Without her stories, he would have just been the grumpy man who flicked the cat’s ears.

On a recent trip to Italy, I visited with my cousin’s daughter, Lia. She is in her early 30s and although her grandmother, my aunt Rosa, was a big part of her life for close to 27 years, Lia had never heard the family stories, until she spent time with my mother.

Hearing Lia’s appreciation for the history my mother shared with her and the connection to the past, I finally realized how lucky I am.

Why didn’t my aunt Rosa tell those stories? Zia Rosa was a no nonsense woman. When her mother died in 1939, she was all of 19 years old. My mom was 13, my aunt Camilla was maybe 16 and my aunt Bianca was 4 or 5. My grandfather? Well he would have been neck deep in grief and perhaps not cut out for the job of solo parenting. Oh, and to make it more interesting, Mussolini was at full tilt insanity and was now partnered with his buddy Hitler. Zia Rosa was suddenly “mother”, without the title or authority, to three uncooperative, grief devastated girls. There was a war on her doorstep and starvation in their cupboard. God only knows how they survived.

Maybe remembering and retelling those stories years later didn’t hold any charm for my aunt. I can’t be sure. My mother, on the other hand, has this inspiring ability to see beyond pain to beauty. In doing so, she has kept her family’s history going.

My parents are now well into their 80s (although my mother insists she’s 38 and will be 48 in March). My father was never a storyteller, but lately as I’ve sat with them during afternoon visits, I’ve noticed that he’s telling his stories now too – through my mother – prompting her with “remember when” and “tell her about”. Those moments are precious.

So far in my well overdue library book about Mussolini, the time line has only reached 1924 – the year my father was born. The more I read, the more I understand some of the choices my grandfather made. I always knew it was a difficult life. At times it was a miserable existence brimming with hopeless poverty, violence and danger, malaria and TB, all mixed with shattering hunger. At the same time it had richness and beauty – because they survived.

For my next few posts, I’ll try to link what I’m learning about Il Duce during the years that intersect my mother’s early life to the stories she’s told me – especially stories about my grandfather who was never able to just do as he was told. I wonder where I get it from.

 

Good God, I can’t write!

It’s so cliché for a writer to fall into the self absorbed state of doubt. But how else am I supposed to act when someone edits my work?

Oh wait. Let me take a breath. One of the cruel fates I must face as someone whose job involves writing and having to get sign off is that sometimes my work gets edited. Oh the horror. It requires a thick-ish skin. At the very least, skin must be thicker than an onion-peel. Either that or a fainting couch would be a job requirement.

The secret is to not be married to your words. I’ll never forget a colleague who became irate at having changes made to her work and reacted by yelling “You changed my word!”

Writing publicly requires putting yourself out there. I don’t know any writers who don’t fear, on some level, that they are a fraud and will be discovered as such. So when someone provides edits, self doubt can sneak in.

Multiply that self doubt by about a thousand when it comes to writing for pleasure or self expression. What happens when that work feels mediocre, bland, boring or just plain bad? Do I quit? Break my pencils? Weep in a corner?

The favourite story I’ve ever written, “The Squirrel on Malcolm’s Deck”, had a rough start. It was way too long and way too cutesy. That was the first 15 drafts. Eventually it came together. And like most writers, I  loathe the idea of cutting out an obviously brilliant scene or that startling original plot twist. But cut I did. That’s what was needed to make it better.

To write and edit and finally publish a piece in any sort of public forum, I had to get over the fear of not being good enough. Doubt is natural and even somewhat healthy. Paralysis is not.

The best advice I ever got was to give myself permission to be bad. Not every word that will escape my pen will be earth shattering. Some of them just escape. Not every draft will be “the one”. A writing instructor once said that 90% of what we write is lousy. I believe his exact word was “crap”. That’s what drafts are for.

If that fails, I try to remember that I’m not as bad as I think. Most of us are our own worst critics in every aspect of life. Every time I write a story or a blog post, I’m sure it’s horrible. And then I get a “like” or positive feedback. That tiny little thumbs up. We live for it. Even though my own work may make me cringe, no one else is judging me as harshly as I judge myself. And if they are, screw ’em.
When I really won’t trust myself, I trust a friend – someone I lean on as an advisor. When I’mnot being hard on myself, I may be delusional about how good Iam. Having an advisor or two to keep me honest and grounded and to catch my typos is key. They’ll tell me if my plot is not believable and will warn me if I’ve gone adverb happy. It’s the writing equivalent of having someone tell me if I have spinach in my teeth or that I do, in fact, look fat in that.

The main thing is to keep writing – looking for that 10% nugget of gold. For the record, this posting took 5 sets of edits, no major re-writes and one trusted advisor.

My fatal flaw

Though some would consider my hair and the amount of cat fur on my clothes to be tragic, I am by no means a tragic hero. I do have one or two tragic flaws, such as the inability to resist Australians or cats to name but two. As I writer and a story-teller, I have identified my fatal flaw. I have an almost pathological need to relate a story exactly as it happened.

I have friends who tell great stories. In fact, I have even warned them that I plan to steal bits and pieces for future short stories. When these show offs – I mean friends – spin their yarns, we laugh and laugh. And every time it’s a story where I was either present or somehow involved, I have to practically use duct tape to resist the overwhelming urge to yell out “It did NOT happen that way.” Doing so would ruin the fun and no one would invite me to dinner parties.

Don’t mistake my admission as an attempt at being modest. I know that I write well. But this disease of mine has been a real challenge. It’s an excellent quality to have as a journalist. Heck it doesn’t even seem to be needed for a memoirist (is that a word?). But it is absolutely lethal for a fiction writer.

What’s truly bizarre is that none of my short stories have been based on my life experiences. They are not autobiographical. I have never battled a squirrel. But for some reason, this nasty little habit of being literal has blocked me every single time.

I blame my Catholic upbringing. (It should be noted that I blame my Catholic upbringing for most things.) My issue is that I have a well established guilt complex. Memories of snapping at my mother when I was 13 can still evoke an anxiety attack. 

Embellishing a story seems too much like… calling it lying seems so harsh… so let’s say fibbing. The simple act of embellishment feels like a sin. My story would be good and everyone would be amused, but I’d be racked with guilt that I wasn’t quite telling the truth.

It’s true, I am an odd duck. 

Each time I sit down to write a short story, or now as I embark on my goal to write a novel, I have to give myself a little talking to. It’s okay to push it, embellish and exaggerate. In fact everyone would be quite pleased if you would.

And so I do.

Trust me, I’m rolling my eyes at myself while I do it.