At lunch recently a co-worker shared that growing up, her
father owned a funeral home in a small Tennessee town; she and her siblings
were all part of the business. They had a dark comedic side that they brought to
the work, like getting a chuckle when their favorite flower arrangement arrived
complete with a phone and the caption “Jesus called and so and so answered.”
My own father died a few years ago and one of the greatest griefs
came in the form of an empty parking lot. The funeral home hired parking lot
attendants to squeeze in all the cars as if we were showing up at a mega-church
with a parking lot ministry on a Sunday morning. But at my father’s funeral,
there were no more than a half dozen cars outside the funeral home. He had
alienated everyone in his life, including his family.
came in the form of an empty parking lot. The funeral home hired parking lot
attendants to squeeze in all the cars as if we were showing up at a mega-church
with a parking lot ministry on a Sunday morning. But at my father’s funeral,
there were no more than a half dozen cars outside the funeral home. He had
alienated everyone in his life, including his family.
When I look at my writing, I realize I’m a bit obsessed with
funerals. They seem to appear regularly in my work. In my novel Try Again Farm, the main characters have
an odd and darkly humorous hobby: they enjoy boosting the funeral attendance at
the funerals of all the lonelies out there. “And there are more than you
realize,” says Mabel in the story. They look up obituaries in the newspaper and
recall those people who had little to no one in their life and they attend that
person’s funeral. I wonder where that idea came from?
funerals. They seem to appear regularly in my work. In my novel Try Again Farm, the main characters have
an odd and darkly humorous hobby: they enjoy boosting the funeral attendance at
the funerals of all the lonelies out there. “And there are more than you
realize,” says Mabel in the story. They look up obituaries in the newspaper and
recall those people who had little to no one in their life and they attend that
person’s funeral. I wonder where that idea came from?
Over Christmas we went to see the movie Saving Mr. Banks, the story of Disney trying to adapt Mary Poppinsto the screen, all to the dismay of PL Travers, the author of the book. Spoiler
alert here: Mrs. Travers (a pseudonym)
recreated the character of Mr. Banks to represent her drunk father, but the
screenplay adapters were struggling to see her vision for the story and for
this important character. Ultimately, Mrs. Travers admits to wanting to redeem
her father, the man she knew to be so much more than just the compilation of
all his failures. I know how Mrs. Travers felt. Unconsciously, I see myself
doing the same thing in my writing.
Such is the beauty of writing. Like in Saving Mr. Banks, writers can adjust reality to erase and revise
what is ugly and painful. We can make the dad help fix the kite as in the
movie, or we can send kind old ladies to boost the crowd in the funeral home,
to honor people who often lived without honor in their lives. Such power to change
the outcome of painful stories of reality and ease the world’s pain with
imagination and words.
what is ugly and painful. We can make the dad help fix the kite as in the
movie, or we can send kind old ladies to boost the crowd in the funeral home,
to honor people who often lived without honor in their lives. Such power to change
the outcome of painful stories of reality and ease the world’s pain with
imagination and words.
I love this perspective, Linda! It reminds me of a quote by Anais Nin: “We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect.” And with the perspective of grace, we can redeem the painful stories. Well said!