Considerations

Recently, while walking the streets of New York, I’ve become distracted by the notion of depicting a duality of city life—as apparent now as then (1872): the prosperity and the poverty. In the span of a minute, across from Macy’s—an extremely recognizable and successful brand, founded in this city in 1858—I walked by a disheveled middle-aged man shuffling down the sidewalk with an armful of cardboard, another man eating greasy Chinese food with chopsticks, a sign propped against his knees begging for handouts, and then another man asleep while sitting, his trumpet quiet at his side. How can someone obviously with musical talented be sleeping in a subway tunnel? How can these coincide with tourists and prospering businesses—and how has this not changed? I’m not wondering how I can change any of this. Yes, I could start volunteering, and maybe bring relief to a few individuals for a few hours. Or, I could join a movement railing against capitalism, or the deficiencies in our welfare/outreach systems (state, religious, non-profit, etc.) Selfishly perhaps, I’m really just concerned with how to depict this two-sided coin in my book. In a film it would be rather easy (the difficulty there would be to do it with subtlety). But how do I do it in writing without being completely explicit about it? This has nothing to do with character or plot or theme—those big issues. Or does it? There’s something there … the conflict and tension between the rising city and the squalor of the streets. And that it’s just as evident and relevant now as then. I can show it then, and speak to it now. 

And I’ve also been considering the novel as symphony, or music in general. Since I don’t read many novels, and I’ve yet to read most of the big classics, the analogy of a classical symphony is appealing. And specifically I’m referring to the scope available in a symphony and the ability combine grandeur with subtlety. Small moments can appear within an overwhelming hour of music; massive chords can make a striking statement, but so can touches of the harp, strings, or a woodwind trio. Like all music I guess. Especially the bands I like, Sigur Ros for example. But this combination, this opportunity I think I might enjoy—to be at once vast and encompassing, but also subtle and intricate. I’m not sure if this is a skill I possess. But then again I’ve never written a novel. Plays are easier. I need to get back to that. 

But the New York of 1872—and Aedan’s story within that context—is an opportunity as much as a challenge. There’s a story I want to tell, and setting I want to depict, and a message to convey (“be the change you wish to see in the world.”) Aedan falls into complacency, but not necessarily success. And when people he cares about either die, or are endangered, or leave him because of this (or just coincidentally) he’s left at a crossroads. How does he want to live? He has the example of his father, his street-wise friend Jim, his naive cousin Padraic, and the benevolent physician Dr. Smith. But he also has the women in his life: Kyla, his sister and responsibility; Charlotte, his passion and fraught relationship; his dead mother, one-time protector and spiritual guide. He squanders money and relationships and trust and opportunities, but in the end he’s still lucky enough to have a choice. Perhaps this is all too unrealistic and contrite—contrived even. A whole bunch of bad stuff happens, and he learns his lesson and does good? Hm … there’s got to be more. Things aren’t that clear cut. Things aren’t that clean and satisfying. Life is messier, more ambiguous and unresolved. Can I explore all that and get the ending I want? (Is that really the ending I want?) Can I have my cake—a complex exploration of a complicated time and character, immersed in a fascinating story and cast—and eat it too? Maybe so, but is this what I even want from this project? 

What I want is for it to be done and over and good and meaningful to someone else—a big maybe. It will be a challenge, but I will also need to challenge myself over the course of it—always asking questions: why do this? is this relevant? how does this help the story? is this effective? But I can’t let any of that second-guessing constrain what I do. That’s a knife-edge balancing act. Of course, the best thing would be to just plow ahead and leave the analysis for the editing process. I’m not sure how to make it work. Again, this whole thing is new to me. 

(Photo credit: Tim)