Monday, May 18, 2009

Coping With Grief: A John Irving Approach


Whilst reading Stephen King’s semi-autobiographical book On writing, I found a page that he recommended some books as “great reads”. John Irving’s A widow for One year was one of them. I was not surprised for I was not new to Irving’s work. I had read his National Book Award winning The World According to Garp and The Cider House Rules that clinched him the best screenplay Academy award. So when I happened upon the book for sale, I was quick to make the purchase and instantly began to read.
From the first line, I was enthralled. The novel chronicled the death of two sons of a family and how various characters struggled to overcome their grief. The central character, Ruth, was conceived after the death of her siblings and the first part of the novel began absurdly with the four-year- old walking in on her mother and her father’s driver in a strange act of sex.
Very peculiar to Irving’s writings are characters as writers. In this novel, Irving went a little too experimental: every character that mattered to grand scheme of the plot were writers or involved intricately with writing: Ruth was a best-selling novelist; her father, Ted, resorted to children stories after he had written previous unremarkable adult novels; her mother, Marion, became a crime writer whilst she sought closure after the disastrous loss of her two sons in an unfortunate auto crash; Ed, her father’s driver, wrote several novels about young men falling in love with older women, numerous remakes of his circumstantial affair with Ruth’s mother; Hannah, Ruth’s best friend was a journalist liberal about her sexual relations; Ruth’s Editor became her husband. And so the waft welted into a hob of Irving’s imagination of writerly characters.
The first part of the novel, Summer 1958, introduced the key characters: Ted, Marion, Ed and little Ruth. Ed takes up a vacation job of being Ted’s driver and he is soon accustomed to Ted’s predilection for seducing young mothers using his fame as a children writer to lure them to pose for his children books. Gradually, he peels off their propriety and gets them to pose nude after which an affair usually ensued. However these affairs, usually short-lived and prolific, did not go unacknowledged by Marion whom Ed had found attractive. The webs of the story spun Ed right into the Marion’s bed and she exposed the virile teenager to sex, a tangible substitute for his habitual masturbations.
We are introduced early to a defunct family system. All the values that characterized family lacked and a young daughter was perhaps the sole reason against actual divorce. Both parents handled their grief in separate manners: Ted became a drunk and perpetual womanizer and his beautiful wife grew cold and steely almost frigid until her sexual encounters with Ed, who easily was her dead son’s age mate.
Memories of the boys were preserved as pictures hung around the house and one is often a tourist offered privileged information about the reasons that occasioned the snapshots and the typical familial circumstances involved. This novel in this way is quite psychological; it helps to discover how people cope with blunt pain, grief. Toward the end of first part, Marion leaves home, leaving her young daughter to her husband’s care; Ed returns home and Ted employs a Mexican couple as gardener and nanny.
The second part of the book teleports us to the fall of 1990. We meet Ruth, an accomplished best-selling novelist with two efforts pegged to her belt; Ed, 48, had written more novels but had less success and still had not outgrown his obsession for Ruth’s mother.
The second part is mostly about Ruth’s life as a writer: her sensibilities and prejudice, if you may. The creative process involved in coming up with what her friend, Hannah, described as “autobiographical” novel. This, Ruth objected until an idea struck her to write a novel about such a delicate themes as sex and depravity. Her research led her in close contact with prostitutes; where she witnessed the murder of a prostitute while “researching” in the prostitute’s closet. It’s in the phase that Africa gets a mention by the way of fleeting Ghanaian prostitutes in a brothel landscape, perhaps that makes Women Trafficking registered in the minds of Africans and Non-Africans alike.
Ruth proceeds to give vital information that helps a police officer apprehend the murderer and she also wrote a novel about the experience. She had earlier been having second thoughts about getting married to her editor but after her experience, she got married and forgave Hannah who had warmed her way into her father’s bed. She unfortunately lost her husband in circumstances I found “questionable”, and she became a widow like one of the characters in her previous novels. Her father also committed to suicide in the circumstances I have wanting in clarification.
Resolution of themes occurred in the final segment of the book when Ruth discovers her mother was a crime writer who wrote novels that had psychological undertones and always alluded to “two missing kids”. Ruth bore a son, Graham, whom she named after Graham Greene, one of her favourite writer’s whose biography held her interest and got numerous mentions in the novel. She also by chance met the police officer, who was also a fan of her novels, had they fell in love in circumstances I find “questionable”.
Irving’s succinctly raised themes and matters of discourse which he made relevant to his novel: of loss and how people handled Grief; of the novelist and the creative process; of how earlier events predispose individuals to reoccurrence and perhaps the unpredictable patterns of fate most especially love and death.
If it serves as any consolation, the denouement after a torturous course of the novelist involved Ruth finally finding love in the arms of a retired Dutch police officer and Marion’s return to Ed’s life in a nick of time to prevent his belated mid-life crisis. And the ending bore unmistakable resemblance to the beginning, when Ruth sights Ed and her mother again together and Marion said, “Don’t cry honey, It’s just Eddie and me”.

Monday, May 11, 2009

The diagnosis of my coma

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its being a a while since i last held a pen to write. my laptop had issues and i had become to lazy to undergo the stress of having to type and queue up at cybercafe to publish online. but now its back and am back and i hope to be faithful to my blog! easy

Friday, April 17, 2009

Saraba April

Living the dream, we are! check the website,www.sarabamag.com, for our latest issue!

Thursday, April 2, 2009

To blog is fine, but to write is divine.

I am a writer. That’s who I see when I look in the mirror, not an ordinary face with bat-ear deformity. That’s who I aspire to be (at least that what led to writing that silly poem in 1998). But I understand how far-fetched a dream of basing my entire livelihood on writing is in this country and continent. I do not want to write my way to the top by writing the white’s version of Africa; what they like to read about Africa (of machetes, (e)maciated mothers, malnourished children, and mad men). I want to write about Africa, shedding postive light on her awesome cultures and sensibilities. But I also want to eat three square meals without batting an eyelid. Thence, I am studying medicine.
As I approach my penultimate I begin to think of my ultimate dreams—to write and to be read in the world over—and am happy am actually actualising these dreams (www.sarabamag.com). Am living it, reliving it, believing, leveraging it, beveraging it. Overthin! But I don’t write most of the time. Most of my best works are abadoned (half-cooked). And whilst I procastinate on completing them, am fully aware that one big time will NOT come for me to write to my fill. But all the same, I expect it.
Whilst am holiday-inn at home( by the way, home is ibafo, a town where people set to work after the sun rises and set with it talcum-laden after few hours), I hope to write to my fill in the next couple of months so help me GOD. So I would hope to post a 300 word stint here weekly and hope God helps me cos to write is really divine.

Monday, March 23, 2009

Thin lines

The thin line between life and death is both the pulse and the ability to percieve impulses. Once those two criticeria has been reached (breached), you are safely dead. Dead, men. Gone. Gone too soon, at least that’s what your obituary would read if your family is decent enough to get you one. But that point has been reached more than once by most, if not all, of us. That critical point where a little more effort would shortput you into the oblivion. Trust me, I know.
I have been there too. More than once. Even recently. Precisely a week ago, I was driving on Campus. I had just completed my exams. And I had passed. But the backlog of sleep and sleep deprivation made my eyes heavy, or what it the undue stress and excessive joggling my system had suffered in the recent past? I don’t know. But I was driving, and then a blackout. OR is it sleep? Whatever, I just slipped.
In that second my car rammed into a traffic light and an electric light pole, which I eventually lifted. I touched the line. But I was restrained. By prayers of my mum and my loved ones. The prayers that had made me use my seat belt, a rare occurrence at 6 am, a time I thought I was far from danger’s gaze. The seatbelt saved my life. Like it did save kayne west’s life and for that aint I grateful? I am. I thank God and my loved ones who for the past days have placed restraining order on my movement. No doubt there are lessons learnt—don’t push yourself too hard—and prices to be paid like I have been reduced from four legs to two, but am grateful, grateful for the experience, grateful for the divine intervention which makes it possible for me to not to have crossed that thin line.

Saturday, March 14, 2009

Grav Superlatives

This week holds quite some significance to me. Yes it does, cos by tomorrow I would add me another year on the surface of this earth ( don’t ask me my age) and the next day I would sit(more appropriately stand) for a clinical exam that would lead me to my penultimate, making my days as a student about 22 months. 22 months away from a family’s dream, 22 months away from the Doctorate, the Hippocratic Oath, mainstream business of helping and saving lives. I can’t but say, I can’t wait!
Yet again, as I pride myself and turn out my appreciation to the Most High for making it possible for me to be quite older, i think again I near my grave. Yes am still very far away from it; I mean I have not written 14 books, married, birth children, witnessed naming ceremonies of grandchildren, handed out my daughter(s) to men in exquisite suits, buried my parents, etc.
Still quite a lot to get done o! And I don’t see death in the next 50 years (God’s willing) but the cruel fact is am much closer to my grave than I was before my last birthday.
Grave.
Gravid.
Gravity.
These three words draw out a meaning that interconnects in my mind. Apart from sharing the first four letters, they seem to remind me of something.
Grave is something we dread (myself inclusive). Frankly am not a fan. Gravidity is more like it. I once was put my mama in the place, then she gave birth to me and if not for the doctor’s intervention as I popped ( or pooped) out her birth canal (after belabouring the poor girl at that time for about 17 hours) I would fall to ground, gravity intervening( John Mayer).
So, I feel smug with my brilliant rendition( thank you, thank you) with these three words but not quite as I was when the missing link between them stumbled on my subconscious; I thought I had the imprint of a good poem!
Let me conclude by saying, I hope my pasteurized thoughts came out like it was preserved in terms of authenticity, synchronicity and relevance. Cuz really, I just dey blab. Many happy returns to me! DA