On Starting a Novel

Right...so I've often thought about writing a novel of some sort, but I've never really been sure if I've got what it takes. I read loads, and I write loads on here, but I'm far too modest to think that I'm any good at it. However, Michael has been encouraging me lately to try my hand at writing a draft of a novel, and today I sat down and started a chapter. I thought I'd post it here, and see what people think of it. It's meant to be a bit autobiographical, but with some elements of fiction. I'm going to make up quite a lot of it, but base it loosely on my own life. The idea is that it should centre around a young woman (very much like me) who is coming to terms with who she is. She uses her grandmother as a standard for what she hopes to become, and struggles to come to terms with whether or not she's half the woman her grandmother was...in the end, she will come to realize that she is, so please don't think that the first chapter (which ends negatively here) is an indication of where the novel will end up...

Let me know what you think...

A few days before my Nana died, I visited her in intensive care. I remember thinking that she looked so small, so frail, tucked tightly into the bed. She had oxygen tubes through her nose, and while that would probably scare some children, it was a normal sight to me. She was dying from emphysema, and had been using an oxygen machine to help her breath for a number of years. I don’t think there are many other diseases in the world that kill you as slowly as emphysema. Slowly but surely, as the years went by, my Nana was being suffocated. Each breath was one ragged step closer to the end. It was a hard concept to wrap my head around at the time, but I understand it now.

She was acutely aware of all this, for she would often share with me the mistakes she made in her youth, particularly about smoking. Even today, on the odd occasion that I have a smoke, I feel a sharp pang of guilt. I can almost feel her disdain. My Nana was a very intelligent woman, and as strong as they come. She was never one to bite her tongue, even if it meant offending someone; if she knew she was right, she’d say so. I know that if she could speak to me, she’d tell me I was being an absolute idiot to smoke. She’d shake her head softly, her eyes closed as if in physical pain. She would then point her thin, strong finger at me, and say, “Krista, you’re a damned fool for doing that to yourself. Did my death teach you nothing?”

Looking back, I think my Nana has taught me a lot about life, even though she’s been gone for ten years. I think once she knew she was dying, years before it actually happened, she’d made a conscious decision to give me as much advice as she possibly could. She must have known that she wouldn’t be around to see me meet my potential as a woman, and so she started speaking to me as if I were an adult when I turned thirteen.

The first time she did this was over a discussion about sex. The two of us were sitting at the table in the kitchen. It was eight or nine at night, and we were having a cup of tea. Living in England now, I don’t associate any special feelings with tea. It’s something I drink in copious amounts on a daily basis. However, back then it was a special ritual between my Nana and I. I only ever drank tea with my Nana. It was our ‘thing’.

This particular night wasn’t long after my thirteenth birthday. I remember feeling quite grown up at the time. I didn’t want to be treated as a child, but felt that most people spoke to me as if I were one, and treated me as one as well. However, I viewed myself as separate from my peers; they didn’t accept me much at the time. I wasn’t well liked, and spent a lot of time on my own. As such, I spent much of my time with my nose in a book, and if I weren’t reading, I’d be doodling silly little Japanese style girls. You know, the ones with gigantic breasts, thin waists, and long flowing hair; All things I wished I had. I didn’t know my place in that world yet, but I was awkwardly trying to position myself within it.

My Nana and I were sitting at the kitchen table, sipping on our tea. Tea time was always a time when we’d talk. I can’t even remember half of the things we talked about now. Instead, I remember the way I felt talking; I felt happy, and loved. I loved my Nana, and she loved me. She’d ask me about school, and when I told her about the troubles I was having with the girls in my grade, she’d shake her head sadly.

“Jealousy has a strange way of affecting people,” she said.

“What do they have to be jealous of? I’m a loser,” I replied.

“You are most assuredly not a loser, my dear. You’re a lovely, bright, intelligent and friendly young girl,” she said. “You’re also pretty. You may not see that now, but I see it, and everyone else sees it.”

I stared deeply into my mug, and felt the heat rise in my cheeks. I wasn’t very good at accepting other people’s praise of me, mainly because I just didn’t feel it was deserved. I suffered from a severe case of low self-esteem. I think to some degree I always will, but that’s another matter.

“Other people often see what we ourselves cannot,” she continued. “Perhaps they see your potential, and are threatened by you because of it. If they push you down, and keep you there, then you can’t rise up to challenge them. It’s sad, really, but often people put down others because they’re insecure about themselves.”

“Maybe,” I said, not really believing her. Nana’s are supposed to say nice things about their grandchildren. She had to say these things to me, but I doubted that they were actually true. I felt uncomfortable talking about the whole thing, to be honest. I had accepted the fact that I was not attractive, and that I was a loser. It hadn’t been easy to accept at first, but now that I’d come to terms with it, I didn’t like to be told otherwise.

“They are jealous,” she said, matter-of-factly.

“Maybe,” I repeated. “But...” I paused for a moment, unsure of whether to breach the topic with my nana, “they are all so much more popular than I’ll ever be. Plus they’ve all got boyfriends... no boys ever look at me.”

I instantly felt silly for saying anything. It showed my own jealousies, and made me just as petty as they were. My envy, of course, was directed towards their ability to attract members of the opposite sex. My thirteen year old self was extremely envious of that. I had started to take an interest in boys the year before, and it slowly got stronger and stronger. At the time I had an undying love for a blonde haired, blue eyed boy in my grade.

“Pffft! Boyfriends?” my Nana laughed. “Sweetheart, never ever base your value as a person on men. You don’t need a man to make you whole!”

I looked up at her, unsure of what to say. What she was saying had nothing to do with what I had said, or so I thought.

“Listen. I’m going to tell you something now. I’m not sure if your mum has talked to you about any of this, but I think that you are old enough to know the truth. Don’t rush into anything. Don’t rush into a relationship, just because everyone around you is in one. Boys will say anything to you, to get what they want. You’re a pretty girl, and you’re too sweet. Some day the right boy will come, and he’ll treat you the way you deserve to be treated. But before him, a bunch of wrong ones will come. And they will try to get you to do things, like sex, that maybe you aren’t ready to do.”

I nearly spit up my tea. Did my Nana just say something about sex? Dear god! It was the last thing on my mind. I was attracted to boys, but I was absolutely terrified of them. The idea of even talking to a boy made my cheeks flush bright red, and I’d develop a nervous shake in my hands.

“Okay,” I mumbled, hoping she’d drop the subject.

“And let me tell you something else. Sex is great. It feels really good, for both the man and the woman. But that doesn’t mean it is something you should just rush into. You should wait, and do it when you’re in love with someone, otherwise it’s cheap.”

I felt faint with horror, having listened to this. My Nana had just told me sex felt great. The world as I knew it was imploding. The last thing I wanted to picture was my nana having sex and enjoying it.

“Okay,” I said again.

She was silent for awhile, looking at me with this knowing look. As far as I know, my Nana never regretted saying the things she said. She was an intensely proud woman, and I think she felt justified in voicing her opinion, no matter what the circumstances. She must have known that years later, after she’d gone, I’d think back on this talk, and realise how right she’d been.

However, at the time I tried hard not to remember that talk. It wasn’t until that moment in the ICU that it came back to me, amongst other memories. I stood at the door to the room, looking in on my Nana, and was flooded with all my memories with her. I was fifteen at the time, and wasn’t ready to lose her. There was so much I wanted her to see.

Her eyes opened slowly, and she focused on me standing in the doorway. She beckoned for me to come to her. I shuffled slowly over to the side of her bed, unsure of where to look. I didn’t like seeing her like this. She was such a strong woman, and yet here she was, laying in bed, tubes and wires everywhere, looking so small. Small and tired, and...not my Nana.

She couldn’t speak. I think it was too painful for her, what with all the tubes going down her throat to keep her alive. Someone had gotten her a little pad of paper, which she used to communicate with the nurses or various members of the family. She beckoned for me to get her the pen, which was on the bedside table. I grabbed it, clicked it open, and handed it to her.

It was hard for her to write. Her hand weakly held onto the pen, and she couldn’t put much pressure on it to write. Her hand moved slowly, shaking the entire time. I was watching the back of her hand the entire time, trying to see how the IV was implanted into the skin on the top of her hand. Her veins looked thin and winding. I hadn’t noticed how small her hands were before, but I noticed it now.
She finished writing, and angled the pad at me.

“Just like me” it read.

She pointed at me, then slowly back at herself. I burst into a fit of tears, unable to contain myself.

The thing is, I cried because I wasn’t sure I was. I wasn’t sure I deserved to even be considered as good a woman as my Nana, and even to this day I am not sure. My entire life I have associated her with this beautiful, headstrong, independent woman. She was proud, to a fault sometimes, not leaving the house once she had to start using oxygen; it was a sign of weakness that she was ashamed to have anyone see. She ruled over the family, held it steadfastly together, despite growing rifts. The feeble relationships between my mother and her siblings were held together through my Nanas’ sheer force of will for it not to fall apart. She wouldn’t allow that to happen, not while she was alive. Nothing escaped her sharp wit. Nothing went unnoticed. So how could she have possibly compared myself to her? How could she be so wrong?