Christmas Eve revelations
In reading Give Her My Love, I'm struck at who I have become in being a storyteller.... Or more rightly, in who I am within my marriage, and how that's translated into my books.
I'm the hawk, who'd have guessed? More rightly, I am Eric Snyder while my beloved and at times beleaguered spouse is the stalwart Lynne, always waiting for her lover's return.
From writing, from sewing, from an abysmal childhood, though I carry no outward deformities, unlike a mysterious painter. Yet my psyche and soul were deeply battered from an abusive alcoholic biological mother, and through my husband's love and support, I am no longer (or not very often) a scarred, scared little girl wondering if anyone could appreciate me.
Maybe these weren't the Christmas Eve revelations you were expecting. I wasn't expecting them either. All I wanted was to complete this read-through, upload the manuscript to Smashwords, then move on with my day. However.... Now I have plenty to ponder, this post to craft, which will lead to more musings amid 24 December preparations. It is still Christmas Eve, even if I feel like an 8.2 earthquake has rattled me deeper than the quake from two years ago, causing this disarray.
Dude....
I'm the artist (for lack of a better way to put it) constantly running away (through fiction and quilts and sometimes really big hissy fits) from the stable base within the marriage. Not that my spouse is perfect, just as Lynne has her less stellar moments. But it's Lynne who supports her erstwhile husband, it's Lynne who solidifies their journey into faith, Lynne to remain mostly together while Eric traipses off, trying to find himself. WOW! Okay, so later Eric makes a sojourn for a better purpose, and yeah, I'm the one who likes to travel. Oh my frickin' goodness, HOW DID I MISS ALL THIS?
Okay, deep breath taken. Huh. Wow. Facepalms all over the dang place.
Another breath taken, and I sit back in my computer chair, smirking just a little. God has a truly fascinating way of revealing deep personal truths. Here on Christmas Eve, I find myself fully bared like never before. No I'm not a painter, or blonde, and it's 2024 not 1960. Yet when an author says, "If you want to know who I am then read my books.", well, they're not jerking you around. Because that is the crux of being a writer, delving into one's own life to fashion a tale. And sometimes we're blessed to not be aware of how deeply we plumb those depths, because to engage in such self-analysis would paralyze the writing, not to mention throw the author into a probable tailspin. I've felt slight guilt in how at times issues that Lynne should inwardly address are instead considered in Eric's voice. Well that's because I am that man!
(Facepalms aplenty!)
And that's how I realized this massive kernel of my life, personal and semi-professional. Here's a brief excerpt of what I read this morning to bring on all this navel-gazing. Thanks for getting through this post, and I wish you all a most happy Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, and much peace as you enjoy this week.
*****
Eric and Michael wandered through the maze while Lynne was happy to remain alone as she reached the next part of the exhibit, her hobbies on show. She considered how nervous she had been, yet relieved for Eric’s presence after a long, miserable winter. Then she shook her head; that had been merely a taste of what autumn was to bring. She walked past those canvases, enjoying the warm camaraderie evoked by the Ahern and Nolan clans. Those family portraits acted as a transition to the last series, which was of the artist’s wife amid her passions, or those that didn’t concern her husband. Lynne wore a seductive smile. At the time these were painted she wasn’t at all comfortable as a model and her poses, while welcoming, didn’t hide her anxiety. Yet, Eric had turned those fears into a formidable beauty; in a matter of weeks, he would be gone, they had both known it. These pastimes had shielded her until Eric’s agonizing return.
Gentle murmurs wafted through the hall, but Lynne only noticed the pounding of her heart. She didn’t mind these canvases being sold as she had no desire to see them again. The man who had created them might not be at her side, but soon Eric would stand next to her, and later that night they would revel in all this evening had wrought, as well as feting their devotion to one another. Lynne didn’t assume their love was any more outstanding than Stanford and Laurie’s, but it was singular in the obstacles they had overcome. She sighed, then smiled. The art dealers might be homosexuals, but she highly doubted either turned into a hawk.
