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“And then, of course, you’ll want to have children,” MGH says poisonously.
“Aunt Bun,” George says, grinning from ear to ear, “how do you know?”
“Because every woman wants children. Unless you are a very great exception. I, myself, never wanted children.” She holds out her glass to George, indicating she needs a refill. “If you want to become a very great writer, you cannot have children. Your books must be your children!”
I wonder if the Bunny has had too much to drink and it’s beginning to show.
And suddenly, I can’t help it. The words just slip out of my mouth. “Do books need to be diapered as well?”
My voice drips with sarcasm.
Bunny’s jaw drops. Clearly, she isn’t used to having her authority challenged. She looks to George, who shrugs as if I’m the most delightful creature in the world.
And then Bunny laughs. She actually guffaws in mirth.
She pats the couch next to her. “What did you say your name was again, dear? Carrie Bradshaw?” She looks up at George and winks. “Come, sit. George keeps telling me I’m turning into a bitter old woman, and I could use some amusement.”
The Writer’s Life, by Mary Gordon Howard.
I open the cover and read the inscription:
To Carrie Bradshaw. Don’t forget to diaper your babies.
I turn the page. Chapter One: The Importance of Keeping a Journal.
Ugh. I put it down and pick up a heavy black book with a leather cover, a gift from George. “I told you she’d love you,” he exclaimed in the car on the way home. And then he was so excited by the success of the visit, he insisted on stopping at a stationery store and buying me my very own journal.
I balance Bunny’s book on top of the journal and randomly flip through it, landing on Chapter Four: How to Create Character.
Audiences often ask if characters are based on “real people.” Indeed, the impulse of the amateur is to write about “who one knows.” The professional, on the other hand, understands the impossibility of such a task. The “creator” of the character must know more about the character than one could ever possibly know about a “real person.” The author must possess complete knowledge: what the character was wearing on Christmas morning when he or she was five, what presents he or she received, who gave
them, and how they were given. A “character,” therefore, is a “real person” who exists in another plane, a parallel universe based on the author’s perception of reality.
When it comes to people—don’t write about who you know, but what you know of human nature.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Accidents Will Happen
I write a short story about Mary Gordon Howard. Her maid puts poison in her sherry and she dies a long and drawn-out death. It’s six pages and it sucks. I stick it in my drawer.
I talk to George a lot on the phone. I take Dorrit to the shrink George found for her in West Hartford.
I feel like I’m marking time.
Dorrit is surly, but she hasn’t gotten into any more trouble. “Dad says you’re going to Brown,” she says one afternoon, when I’m driving her home from her appointment.
“Haven’t been accepted yet.”
“I hope you are,” she says. “All Dad ever wanted was for one of his daughters to go to his alma mater. If you get in, I won’t have to worry about it.”
“What if I don’t want to go to Brown?”
“Then you’re stupid,” Dorrit says.
“Carrie!” Missy says, running out of the house. “Carrie!” She’s waving a thick envelope. “It’s from Brown.”
“See?” Dorrit says. Even she’s excited.
