The Color of Mom

Writing requires organization and discipline. In order to write a book, you need to make choices about what to include and exclude from your story as the process unfolds. Some writers sit and free-write faithfully, and from this exercise, a book eventually emerges. These writers – I recently learned – are called “pantsers.” They write their book, literally, “by the seat of their pants.” I am normally that type of person on many projects I undertake. In this case, I have been told I have too much material to draw from and too many anecdotes to share. I have to put them in some sort of order. A narrative arc I believe it is called. I explained in an earlier post that I went to a stationery store, and bought lots of writing paper, and bright neon-colored index cards: pink, yellow, blue, pink, and green. “Assign a color to each major character,” I was advised. “Collect your stories and observations about that character on that single-color index card as they come up for you. Carry the blank cards with you so you can jot down ideas that come up on the fly.” I may be overthinking it but I immediately wondered: what color should Mom be? She was a tiny, feminine woman so maybe her cards should be pink. Then again, she was not very much maternal and had a hard and bitter edge. I vacillated while considering the yellow cards. She committed stunning acts both of bravery and cowardice in her lifetime. Does she deserve to wear the yellow stripe of cowardice in my musings? Given our troubled history, it would not have been inaccurate. What about the blue index cards for the sadness and chaos she created in my life and her own and that of many others? And certainly not the green index cards. Poet Irving Layton once wrote a phrase about poets and poetry that has stayed with me: “The poet’s colors are green and black – the colors of life and death.” Green is sacred to me. It has always evoked life and renewal. I’ve painted the walls of my home in shades of green. I crave the fresh green palate I encounter on forest walks. My doctor insists fresh greens on my palate will prolong and enhance my healthspan. I cannot assign this precious color to musings about my mother. Sadly, so much of what I remember about her is sad and sick and life-sapping, not life-giving. I told my husband about the dilemma I faced. He replied immediately: “Perhaps you should make her cards in dual colors.” Duplicity was a strong character trait of hers so that could work. “Put a diagonal across the index card. Write your pleasant memories on one side of the line and the not-so-pleasant memories on the other side.” A logical compromise, I think. But as to the color? Possibly white. White-faced. Bloodless. Whitewash. Cadaverous. A void. I have so few warm or pleasant memories of my mother and that is sad. What I mostly remember is surviving her. For years, my survival was nowhere near a foregone conclusion. We’ll see how the card color selection plays out. Meanwhile, I will take the advice of author Anne Lamott. She advises authors who are reluctant to share bad things that others had done to them to let it all out: “You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.”