More Thoughts on Narrative: Lynn Darling’s Necessary Sins

I finished Lynn Darling’s Necessary Sins.

And now I find myself thinking, yet again, about narrative.

I am not sure if essay writers and memoir-writers admit how competitive they may feel about laying claim to the narrative of their lives. I will have to look into that, it’s a really interesting topic to me. Getting there first, saying, “No. THIS is how it happened.” I would like to read more on the subject. Because while the writer writes in a subjective mode (“this is how it was for me”), what he or she is really doing is placing a flag in the ground, and saying, “This now is truth.” And you may have your version, but I’m the one who wrote the damn thing down, didn’t I?

Here’s an example of what I mean from my own life.

Necessary Sins made me think of this, and so many other things, because Lynn Darling, in essence, stole another woman’s husband. This is the guilt that lies at the heart of their relationship, the sense that any mess that befalls them afterwards is somehow just punishment for that first necessary sin. The ex-wife doesn’t play into it much, except peripherally, and I am sure she has her version of the story, but again: Lynn Darling laid claim. Not to the whole thing, of course, but that is irrelevant. Once it is written down, it becomes the narrative, and anything that comes afterwards must either rebut that original story, agree with it, or ignore it altogether. The written-down story becomes the focal point. Darling doesn’t write from that place, at least not consciously, her tone is regretful, fearful, and mostly panicked. Yet in the end it was the right thing – for her and her husband, anyway. The three children from his former marriage emerge as frightening adversaries in her goals for happiness, and some of the most touching parts of the book are the sections when she suddenly finds herself alone with the three of them, baffled at how to entertain them, how to even look them in the eye. It is a compelling story.

Additionally (and here is a spoiler, although I hesitate to call such a shattering life-event a spoiler – I just know it took my breath away when it came):

The youngest child from the first marriage is a boy named Adrien. He is about four years old when his parents’ marriage breaks up, and Lynn Darling writes about him in a way that makes him leap off the page. He is an amazing character, that 4 year old boy, and much of it really moved me. His perceptions, his sensitivity, and yet also – his 4-year-old-ness. You know how little kids can cut right to the heart of the matter, they haven’t learned how to filter. But Adrien, additionally, has an emotional maturity, which many little kids don’t. He somehow understood, deep down, the complexity of the situation – everyone’s side, not just one side – and he tried to “take care” of everyone.

3/4 of the way through the book, I learned that Adrien, at age 11, was killed in a car crash. I had not seen it coming, I did not know any of the story beforehand, and I had to put the book down for a while. It was too tragic, too awful.

But I have mixed feelings about the whole thing (which, I believe, is one of the strengths of the book, and why I highly recommend it). Adrien was not her son. Now obviously she ended up being his father’s second wife, so naturally she would have to have some kind of relationship. She was the step-mom. She can lay claim to that. It was the “laying claim” to Adrien’s death (merely by writing about it – just want to be clear) that made me suddenly wonder about that first wife, Adrien’s mother, and how she felt about it. There is pretty much no talk about how the two sides of this shattered family ended up working things out (one of the flaws of the book, I might add. It’s a big missing piece, and in a book that tells so much truth, I really think it needed to “go there” as well.) Now there are clues – Becky (the first wife) calls Lynn to tell her that Adrien has been hit by a car – and could Lynn please contact Lee? So there’s that clue. There is obviously contact, and an admission of Lynn into Becky’s radar. But other than that, not so much.

Writers are not ethical people. Not in that way, anyway. The desire to tell all, to tell the truth, and to put your voice out there – to be the one whose voice is heard – does not necessarily line up with nice-pretty-Norman-Rockwell sentiments. I get that. In a way, writers are like grave-robbers. “I’m gonna go in there and find out what’s there and I am gonna be the one to write it.”

I have been learning that myself over the past couple of years, working on my book. Truth above all else. Truth not just about what I see, but truth about myself. It’s hard work. It really really helps to not worry about what “people will think”, what “so-and-so will feel when she reads it”, and all of those other civilized concerns.

These are the things that went through my mind as I read Lynn Darling’s chapter on the death of her stepson Adrien.

Not only that but it’s one of the things in the forefront now that I have finished the book. It is, essentially, a love story. Lee Lescaze has died, and his death was terrible, and painful, and long-drawn-out. It was difficult for me to finish the book. But I felt, during those last chapters, a strange peace and space opening up inside me … like she was saying what I, so far, have been unable to.

I have not yet laid claim to my own narrative.

Yet I was somehow able to appreciate the fact that someone else, in her own life, got there before me and put it into words. That is the great power of writing and storytelling, in general.

But again, there is an uneasiness at the heart of the book (something that Darling acknowledges and brings up again and again) – due to how her relationship began. It is her narrative. That is the way it went for her.

I had a good conversation with Allison a while back about narrative, and I was getting pretty righteous in my views – MY narrative doesn’t look like other people’s, and for women there is a VERY set narrative and I fit into NONE of that … Our narrative is biological as well … and goddammit, I cant fit into THAT either … but I loved Allison’s response. This is what good friends are for. She said, “Sheila, everyone’s narrative is different.” There are times when I insist upon my own isolation, my own “difference” – this is merely indicative of old patterns, going back to – God, when I was a small small child – so much of it is kneejerk, and I need my good friends to slap me out of it.

The other thing that has been going on, which was brought up by Darling’s book (as well as a lot of offline experiences I’ve been having recently) – is the weirdness I feel as I approach keeping a journal again. I am so out of practice, and I am not sure even why I am writing. At the same time, I feel a strange superstition about writing – because I don’t know “the ending” yet to this particular tale. And I feel despair (before the fact) at investing any time at all to writing about it – if the ending is going to be just same ol’ same ol’. On an even stranger level (and this is where it gets almost mentally ill): I feel like I must hold off on writing about this until I know “the ending”. The uncertainty of it is too much. I mean, it’s awesome in the moment – but it’s nothing I want to capture. Funny thing is, if you know what you’re looking for – then that is ALL my blog has been about recently. For months. I’m only writing about one thing. I’ve said it before: I dislike coyness – in myself and others – and I do not say this to be coy. I say it to be honest about where I am at, and my tentativeness in terms of narrative at this moment.

Perhaps other people don’t worry about such things, and will read a post such as this and think, “Jesus, lady, just chill out and live your life.”

Ah, but if you think that, then you are not me. You are also not a writer. I have been this intense and superstitious and analytical since before I was even really conscious.

I have kept much of this kind of commentary off my blog because it is quite revealing, and I have tried to protect myself from the mean stupid comments of the “Jesus, lady, chill out and get laid” brigade. But I have no more interest in protecting myself (from what? Jagoffs at their keyboard? Please.) – and it also seems less precarious than it has in the past. I am not invested in a certain persona so much anymore – I can feel that shedding away … there is no time anymore for that kind of game.

However, on the flipside: Darling’s book has called all kinds of things into question. How I feel about narrative, how I feel about my own and others and how we intersect – and what the hell is happening with this ongoing story, and how I can interpret it?

One of the things I am present to is that there is this part of me, like I mentioned in the beginning of the post, that gets competitive with the story. I will be the one to tell it. And so therefore, I get to own it. I have lost much in this life. I have loved men and had to let them go. I have grasped too hard and watched them disappear. That is my narrative. (My literary conceit, to quote David). And that is the story I have to tell. There is a part of me that has always felt that if I could just write it down, capture what happened, there would be a sense of freedom with the story itself. No longer would it trap me, or stifle me. But I would feel like: ahhh, I got that OUT and I am proud of it and now let’s see if it can live out in the world and if other people would like to read it. That has happened with my essays before. I have had true transformations of how I have actually FELT about a particular story once I wrote it all down.

But what happens when you are mid-story? You can’t own it yet. There is nothing to own. The sands shift beneath your feet. If you place a flag THERE, it will be relatively meaningless tomorrow. Alice and the fawn, remember? When you enter “the wood where things have no name”, then there is nothing to claim, nothing to say, “This is mine”. You are nameless. You don’t even know the name for “wood”, or yourself, or the fawn beside you.

Part of the stress that I feel (at times) is that I already want to own this story. I wonder how I will eventually tell it. I wonder what title I will give it. I even try out opening sentences. My cousin Mike gave me a potential title. But it is not time yet. Not time.

My blank journal pages tell me it is not time.

Lynn Darling wrote her book about her love affair when it was time. And the feelings of the first wife about this woman who stole her husband are unknown to me. Not to mention the feelings she may have about the memoir written by said woman, who now lays claim not just to her own narrative – but to the MAN himself. I know Lee Lescaze now through Lynn Darling’s eyes. That is HERS. She gave it to me. She OWNS it.

That’s the power of being a writer, and believe me when I say it can be daunting.

Do you want to own this?

Or do you want to live it?

Well. I’m a writer. I want to do both.