The point of a story is always the point beside the point.
There is the story, and there is the story within the story. The moral and then the meaning. The life and the interpretation. Nearly all of my fiction, all of my poems (and nearly all “creative” writing, I think) is real experience (or at least real dreaming) filtered and mulled over and mixed and distilled and scribbled over and reimagined until it best expresses what life presented in so sloppy a manner.
I gave birth to a baby boy three days and one hour ago. Numbers and facts were noted by midwife hands as events unfolded, and my own initial response I’ve written already. I’ve talked it through a little with my husband, my mother, my mother-in-law. But the story is still unfinished. It’s what happened on the outside, not the inside.
Sometimes the plot twists. Sometimes your body throws you curve balls, holding onto your baby long after you thought it would want it out. Sometimes the firecracker baby girl you imagine for months and months is the sleepiest little chirping newborn boy you’ve ever seen.
And sometimes the plot finds a theme and won’t let it go. The same emotions as before as labor goes on for longer than you want. The same sensation as the slippery, squidlike body separates from yours. The same curl on his forehead, same hairs on the edges of his ears, same weight on your chest as he sleeps.
It’s a new section to my(/our) narrative, A period and a blank page and a fresh beginning. A new season. Finding our shifted balance as a family as I rediscover the balance of my own unburdened body.
When I gave birth the first time, I thought I would find a wellspring of inspiration, creativity, fertility for my work, and instead I found the shock of new motherhood. This time I expected a shock, and though I know it won’t be easy, something tells me the words, too, are there waiting.