There is a saying I think we have all heard, a question to which we cannot respond in all accuracy and will later regret our answers to, no matter what they are-if they make us sound shallow, or we forgot about something, and we may panic as if we could not change our minds were the situation in place, as if we are bound to our choice by some immortal contract-if you could only save one thing in the fire, what would it be?
It is a difficult thing to say. Practicality says nothing, that you make sure the family is with you and get out, because that is the smart thing to do. Somehow, though, the brightest of mind loses its ability to make a fully coherent choice in the face of fear. I have always known I would be one of the fools to shove past my family and run down the stairs, inhaling ash and tripping over burning pieces of falling wood, unable to see but dragged on by some outside force, one that has taken the path with the same intention so many times that it is second nature.
It would not be for my George Washington bobble head I got at Mount Vernon. It would not be for my old sketchbooks. It would not be for my camera full of pictures of D.C. or the stuffed dog I got when I was three or my favorite heart necklace or my pink leather jacket(I can only hope I am wearing) or the first mock-up for clothing I ever made...People would say that all these things are replaceable. Of course, I know the truth-that I may never go to D.C. again, that that stuffed dog has its fur rubbed off from being so old and that I never seen a heart necklace quite like this one before. However, I would not risk my life for any of them. Not recklessly charge straight through a flame.
I would head to the room that is possibly the biggest fire hazard in the whole house, and crawl up to the tiny black IKEA table beside my bed. I would stare at the six binders there, and make a very difficult decision. One, the red one, would be easy to leave-while I love it, it is not one of the first series I wrote, the characters I would do anything for. One would think, then, I would save the first book I wrote. It makes sense, sentimentally at least. For the longest time, this is what I said I would save, when faced with this question-simply because it seemed most reasonable, but silly as it is it would not be my first choice-and not because the writing is mediocre. I recently finished typing and editing this one, it is saved in two places, and so fresh in my mind I feel I could accurately rewrite it if need be. I would also not choose the second book, because it is my least favorite, and needs massive rewriting anyway. There would sit the third book, beside it, tied for my favorite. I was in a really good writing streak, and there were a lot of new characters, and more depth to those that already existed, but I would not take it. That brings me to the fourth. It is quite depressing, and entirely unsettling-beginning to end. That would not serve me well in getting over the tragedy, especially considering one of the character's house burns down. That leaves the fifth.
Now, of course all of these logical arguments would not pass through my mind. I would simply grab one and run. It took me a long time to realize why I would take this one. Not because it addressed every antic of previous stories and would set an effective road map to recreating the series, or because it was recent and my writing was better, or because it was the longest of them all. The more I thought about this, the more I realized that it had to be some deep rooted, natural reason I would pass up all of the others for the fifth one. Suddenly it came to me.
I have an immense problem with closure. The kind of problem that gives you anxiety attacks over week old events and always leaves you looking for approval of your actions and makes you finish a really bad book just because you already read 50 pages..100 pages....etc. This book, this end to my obsession and my everything and a large part of my heart, was not simply a finale. It answer every unanswered question, every unresolved issue everything left by the rest of the series. People's actions were justified and epiphany's were made and it did not only satisfy me, but it allowed the characters I so loved to have peace. To not be plagued by things they never knew or wondering what could have been, not to obsess over things that were always out of their control...
And I hope, I so deeply hope, that one day I find that. Surely, I feel, that it is impossible-but do I not owe saving it for my characters as much as I owed them closure in the first place-as much as I owe myself closure? I feel that I do. So maybe I wouldn't have time to consider all of the details, which book used stronger metaphors or showed my characters at there best or had greater plot twists-but surely an unquenchable desire knit that deep into my being would alter that seconds long decision. Surely then I could move on, if they could. So that is why I would save it, the binder with five beat up note books inside and a cover that reads in elegant letters, "The Things You Never Knew." That is why I would risk my life. To save a piece of myself that at times feels entirely lost, the piece that hopes, that is burning up in an inferno of self-doubt and stress and guilt and nightmares, where things I never learned burn and things I never will know melt at a slow and steady pace, where everything I aspire to be and do in life perishes in the fire.
It is a difficult thing to say. Practicality says nothing, that you make sure the family is with you and get out, because that is the smart thing to do. Somehow, though, the brightest of mind loses its ability to make a fully coherent choice in the face of fear. I have always known I would be one of the fools to shove past my family and run down the stairs, inhaling ash and tripping over burning pieces of falling wood, unable to see but dragged on by some outside force, one that has taken the path with the same intention so many times that it is second nature.
It would not be for my George Washington bobble head I got at Mount Vernon. It would not be for my old sketchbooks. It would not be for my camera full of pictures of D.C. or the stuffed dog I got when I was three or my favorite heart necklace or my pink leather jacket(I can only hope I am wearing) or the first mock-up for clothing I ever made...People would say that all these things are replaceable. Of course, I know the truth-that I may never go to D.C. again, that that stuffed dog has its fur rubbed off from being so old and that I never seen a heart necklace quite like this one before. However, I would not risk my life for any of them. Not recklessly charge straight through a flame.
I would head to the room that is possibly the biggest fire hazard in the whole house, and crawl up to the tiny black IKEA table beside my bed. I would stare at the six binders there, and make a very difficult decision. One, the red one, would be easy to leave-while I love it, it is not one of the first series I wrote, the characters I would do anything for. One would think, then, I would save the first book I wrote. It makes sense, sentimentally at least. For the longest time, this is what I said I would save, when faced with this question-simply because it seemed most reasonable, but silly as it is it would not be my first choice-and not because the writing is mediocre. I recently finished typing and editing this one, it is saved in two places, and so fresh in my mind I feel I could accurately rewrite it if need be. I would also not choose the second book, because it is my least favorite, and needs massive rewriting anyway. There would sit the third book, beside it, tied for my favorite. I was in a really good writing streak, and there were a lot of new characters, and more depth to those that already existed, but I would not take it. That brings me to the fourth. It is quite depressing, and entirely unsettling-beginning to end. That would not serve me well in getting over the tragedy, especially considering one of the character's house burns down. That leaves the fifth.
Now, of course all of these logical arguments would not pass through my mind. I would simply grab one and run. It took me a long time to realize why I would take this one. Not because it addressed every antic of previous stories and would set an effective road map to recreating the series, or because it was recent and my writing was better, or because it was the longest of them all. The more I thought about this, the more I realized that it had to be some deep rooted, natural reason I would pass up all of the others for the fifth one. Suddenly it came to me.
I have an immense problem with closure. The kind of problem that gives you anxiety attacks over week old events and always leaves you looking for approval of your actions and makes you finish a really bad book just because you already read 50 pages..100 pages....etc. This book, this end to my obsession and my everything and a large part of my heart, was not simply a finale. It answer every unanswered question, every unresolved issue everything left by the rest of the series. People's actions were justified and epiphany's were made and it did not only satisfy me, but it allowed the characters I so loved to have peace. To not be plagued by things they never knew or wondering what could have been, not to obsess over things that were always out of their control...
And I hope, I so deeply hope, that one day I find that. Surely, I feel, that it is impossible-but do I not owe saving it for my characters as much as I owed them closure in the first place-as much as I owe myself closure? I feel that I do. So maybe I wouldn't have time to consider all of the details, which book used stronger metaphors or showed my characters at there best or had greater plot twists-but surely an unquenchable desire knit that deep into my being would alter that seconds long decision. Surely then I could move on, if they could. So that is why I would save it, the binder with five beat up note books inside and a cover that reads in elegant letters, "The Things You Never Knew." That is why I would risk my life. To save a piece of myself that at times feels entirely lost, the piece that hopes, that is burning up in an inferno of self-doubt and stress and guilt and nightmares, where things I never learned burn and things I never will know melt at a slow and steady pace, where everything I aspire to be and do in life perishes in the fire.