In the desert town where I grew up and where I am now domiciled; there is an old Indian legend which says that the Native Americans (Ute tribe), as they were being pushed out by white settlers, left a curse that anyone born here might leave; but would always have to return.
Well, here I am, back home again and living a writer’s irony that rivals that of a science fiction author. I have heard repeatedly that good science fiction is like prophecy and tends to come true in the future. I do not write Science Fiction so I presume I am exempt from living my plot, digging my own grave, or pre-engraving my own tombstone.
Good fiction of any nature is often based on fact or experience; so you could say that my narrative came true in the past rather than the future. I think of relational, narrative, fiction as a sort of unknown author’s memoir. Much more is probably true than the reader imagines (only the names have been changed to protect the innocent-or the guilty).
I am now 136 pages into my novel, and I know the final page. The main character hops a plane and moves toward her future in Seattle. My original plan had been to spend these 5 months writing in Seattle. I have always loved Seattle and thought it would be rather quaint to wrap up the plot there. A sudden turn of events rerouted me to the desert. Rerouted me on the heals of scripting the protagonist to say, “I promptly joined the Symphony Guild.”
Guess what I did this morning, gentle reader? I knowingly, intentionally, joined the Symphony Guild – the new and improved, 22 years more experienced, but none the less, same guild that was the model for that chapter of the book. I have been here before, I know the script. Now I see it with the eyes of the next generation. Last week my old friend Charlie commented on this very blog site. Guess whom I had just caricatured and morphed into someone else in the preceding pages?
So explain to me again how I ended up here in déjà vu land?
I WASN’T BORN HERE. I AM NOT UNDER THE CURSE.