Loosely translated, this expression means "to have your nose too close the handle bars." Like I'm riding my bike and pedaling really fast and earnestly, trying to get to my destination, but worrying about the grit getting stuck in my tires instead of watching the road ahead of me. I can't see the potholes coming, I can't see the flowers blooming by the side of the road, I don't know whether or not I'm on a side street, bike path, or about to ride off a cliff.
"Avoir le nez dans le guidon" is my problem this week. I'm focusing entirely on how worried I am about the yucky feelings that are going to come back when I write more about Rachel. I'm not thinking about my project as a writer, I'm thinking about it as a victim.
Have I mentioned to you all lately that I am NOT a victim? Voix does not tolerate self-pity for long, even though she has been known to indulge in the occasional Vouvray soaked Francis Cabrel singing competition.
So Brian, who has Jedi mind reading powers, has prompted me to start writing more macro -- bigger, broader, more universal. He is now my official, "get your nose out of the handlebars" reminder-giver. He is also telling me that I should be writing fiction, however, so I'm a little uncertain about how much to trust him . . . Have I ever told you all that writing fiction just feels like lying to me? And to make good stories, you have to be mean to your characters? Maybe I was a control freak for too long -- I just can't dig the manipulation right now.
Anyway. I feel expansive this morning. Like I can stretch myself out and find a bigger view of the world. Like I can tell my story about Rachel without it being all overwrought and pathetic and filled with tears and self-indulgence.
It's only a story, after all. I've already survived it.
25 April 2006
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When you wake up from a nightmare, you are still afraid for a little while. Then, eventually, you realize that you are NOT in fact, falling from the top of a tall building into the giant jaws of a snarling Janice Dickinson head attached to the body of a rabid wolverine. You realize that you are, in fact, OK. You calm yourself down and eventually, get up and start your day. Everything's OK Voix! Calm yourself down and get up and start your day. I know you can do it!
finally got to the post to get your card. Thank you.
You're on the list now for post cards. You're my only US address.
Well, when you are ready to journey down the fiction road, doesn't a character like Rachel beg for you to be mean to her?
And frankly, doesn't the real Rachel beg for you to be mean to her, at least a little. I mean, sure you need to be evenhanded and any complete character in fiction and non-fiction to be interesting must have some redeeming qualities, I would think, but there's no reason to hold back.
Your idea of taking some shots at yourself seems important, but no less so than you leveling the boom on Rachel, at least from time to time (while reminding of the good you saw in her as well).
All of that has to be cathartic in some sense.
I sense the conflict within you.
Flannery O'Connor said "The truth does not change according to our ability to stomach it."
The raw truth of your past experience is the hearty stuff of which great fiction is created.
Twain: "It's no wonder that truth is stranger than fiction. Fiction has to make sense."
Some of us like a few tears in their stories.
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