Tristan and Isa

We all have big dreams as kids, don’t we? I dreamt of some grand things: being a singer, or an Olympic skater, for instance. I also dreamt of mundane things, and these were my biggest dreams, the ones I held tightly in my heart. The really really really wants: I wanted to be a professor, and a writer. One of my dreams came true.

Obviously, you have never heard of me. Which means that I didn’t get famous. I am not an Olympic skater. Not a singer. Not an author. I am a professor. Not something glamorous like Global Politics, or Astronomy. Me? I teach English. Boring old composition and literature. I stare out at yet another new section of students, and realize the same old truth again. If I am really good, and really lucky, I might get 1 English major out of this bunch. Sometimes, I don’t even get 1. I get hundreds of new students each semester, none of them take the class because they want to. They take it because they have to. It’s either a pre-req, or they need an elective and this one fit their schedule. 

I open the class as I always do: We go over the syllabus, reading list, highlights of the course, and my pedigree. Then, I run a slideshow of authors and oft quoted celebs (mostly singers who integrate literature into their songs- Iron Maiden, Sting, Vampire Weekend, etc). I ask the students what each of the people in my slides have in common. They are stumped. At last, the final slide holds the answer.

LIKE YOU, NONE OF THESE PEOPLE WANTED TO TAKE THIS CLASS (or one like this). BUT THEY DID, AND NOW WE BENEFIT FROM THEIR KNOWLEDGE OF LITERATURE. THEY ENRICH OUR LIVES, MAKE THE WORST MOMENTS OK AGAIN. THEY USE LITERATURE TO MAKE OUR LIVES BETTER. HOW WILL YOU USE THIS CLASS TO MAKE YOUR LIFE- AND OTHERS’ LIVE- BETTER? 

Write your response and hand it to me as you leave today.

This at least gets a bit of buy in from ¼ of the students. Another ¼ are at least willing to hear what I have to say, for the moment, and the other half… sigh, Some will drop, some will barely pass, and a couple will limp along, getting one of their peers to help them a little more than they ought to.

After class, I wander out to the parking garage, and glance over the responses. The same percentages are: thoughtful, wry, whining, and satirical. One student is bold enough to write simply: I need at least a 75 in this class, so aiming to get that much out of it.

Oh, good. I push the responses into my bag. Number grabbers are the worst. Most of my colleagues agree with me that grading work is a task that we put more work into than many of the students do. I think again about how nice it would be to teach somewhere that doesn’t give grades outside of the final exams. That would be lovely…

My phone jolts me out of this reverie, and I glance at the screen. My daughter. Hmmm, Genny. It’s early for her to call. Hope nothing is wrong.

Just as I go to answer, I see a black fluff-ball at the bottom of the stairs, “Kitten!” I blurt.

Now, Genevieve tolerated that nick-name as a child, but grew to hate it in her teens and young adulthood, so her response wasn’t the warmest. “Mother. Please.” She started.

“Oh, gosh no! I mean there is a kitten here. At the base of the stairs at work. What’s up, hon? This is early for you to call.”

She paused, “Well, I kind of have some news. It’s pretty good news. Are you sitting? Are you driving? If you are, stop.”

“I am sitting on the step petting a kitten, wondering how to bring her home and not get killed. Good news is good. Let’s hear it!” I tousle the kitten’s tummy, noticing it was absolutely pure black, and it starts to purr. Yep, kitten’s going home with me.

“Well, I did it! I brought this book home today from my meeting, and you will never believe who the author is!” She was clearly restraining herself. She’d practically squealed.

“Ummm, if I will never guess, you have to tell me, right?” I am starting to wonder… did she beat me to it? 

My stack of manuscripts and notebook of half baked ideas for stories have been an ever present fixture in our lives. My books get started, but never finished. My stories are never done. 

I remember fondly the swell of pride when she was 2 or 3. We were in the bank, and I had given her a pen and a moleskin to doodle with while we waited. The sweet gentleman behind us asked her what she wanted to be when she grew up? Was she going to be a doctor? She never even glanced up as she cocked her head to the side and stated, “No. I’m going to be a writer like my mommy.”

I have to be honest. I was on cloud 9 that day. My daughter thought of me as a writer. AND she wanted to be like ME. 

She went on to study philosophy and film, but I figured that’s always been close enough to my dreams. Now, she has big news…

“It’s MY NAME!” She was trying very hard to control her voice, and not blast my phone’s antiquated speaker. 

I share in her joy, as I head home with my new pet. I feel her happiness as if it were mine. 

Still… Thank goodness for that kitten to distract me, and to create enough of a situation as I bring her home to meet her new “Dad”- my retired husband (NOT a cat fan). I am naming her, I mean him (more tummy rubbing shows us) Cat-Man-Du. Cat-Man-Du keeps me busy, and alleviates the need to get into the tiny gnawing thought in the depths of my heart. George is none-too-pleased, but agrees: I couldn’t have left the defenseless kitten to get run over by the cars leaving campus. He tells me that he doesn’t think I needed to bring her-him- home. He’s a smart guy, though. He also knows there is no way she (umm, he) was getting set back down once I had him in my arms.

So, I do all the new pet parent things for my new kitten. I leave a message at the Vet’s to schedule an appointment… health, shots, chip check, neutering if needed. George and I run to PetCo to get food and water dishes, a kitty house, a collar, and some toys (for a non-cat guy, George is pretty generous in getting toys and treats for the kitten).

Finally, George heads off to watch the news, and leaves me to do my nightly work. It’s Tuesday, so that means… It's writing day. I turn to the stacks next to me. Ughh, nothing is near completion. There’s no way I can finish a story. I don’t even hear any of them asking to be finished. But I just can’t start another one.

I know that the stack of unfinished pieces are taunting me. There’s just no where to go with them. What can I do? Will I ever find my name on a book?

An email pops up. First day of classes, and already an email from a student? Oh, boy. I sigh and open it, looking for anything to distract me from not finishing another story.

I am actually pleased when I read the email, from one LSMartinez, I see that my cheap ploy to gain attention has paid off. Martinez tells me that my “little pep talk” helped them to understand the importance of literature in “the real world.”

I smirk at the idea that literature isn’t really part of the real world and briefly consider that my daughter- my one and only daughter- has just entered the world of literature.

Can’t lie. I am beyond proud. My little girl did exactly what she said she would. She became a writer.

Me, on the other hand. I became a serial…starter. I start lives on the page, I give them hopes, ambitions, dreams. Dreams as real as my own. And like my own, they never come to fruition. They just sit. Stagnate. Immutable. Unlivable. I’m as bad as a serial killer. I give life, and then just let them fade out into the darkness. 

I’m a monster… I give my daughter goals I can’t even reach, and then I’m… I don’t know what I am. I do write, but…. I’m a failure. I don’t finish what I start. I fail the lives that depend on me. I start stories, and don’t finish the. I bring these ideas and people into life, and fail to give it to them.

Kitten… Cat-Man-Du… he jumps onto my lap. At. That. Exact. Moment.

“Ahhh, sweet boy. You are just so cute!” I murmur into his fur, “Ah, thank you, Cat-Man-Du! I need you!”

I smirk again at my rhyme… #English_Major_problems, right? I literally rhyme all the time, without trying. I also write in Iambic pentameter without trying. Most of the time. Enjambment breaks it often, but who’s counting?

I laugh again as I break the meter. Yay! I can break meter. Oddly, this makes it worse. I can manhandle language like crazy, unless it’s my own story.

Hmmmm. Maybe that’s the problem. I keep trying my OWN stories. Maybe I should tell an old story, new again. Like Chaucer and Shakespeare. I know them, and they have a definite ending, pre-recorded. I have an end game. 

I feel… Certain. Sure. Validated. Thanks to years of college and grad school, and decades of teaching High School, I know these stories, backward and forward. I know them in their original forms, and in translation. Much like The Green Knight, The Knight’s Tale. I know them as well as the story of my children.

I turn my attention to my daughter’s manuscript… and realize… She has a niche. But, I also have a niche. Hers is SciFi, a writing unit that I taught in our Creative Writing Class in her Senior Year. My mom’s was memoir. I remember reading her stories as a kid and telling her she should publish. “No, Dolly, I’m no writer” she’d say, no matter how often I told her that her stuff was really, really good. My niche? Well, mine may be reaching back, into the origins of English, and the English Language. 

I grab my copy of Tristan and Isolde (Chaucer’s of course), and I start wonder. How to make this modern? Do I give Tristan a job? What job? Maybe he’s an assistant, at Vogue. And Isolde? I think her name is Isa now. She is a model. She works for St Laurent and Vogue wants her to be just their model. Their CEO sends Tristan to get her from her Vogue Dorm. 

But when he picks her up at the airport for an “informal little chat” at Vogue, they talk…

Oh Goodness… I have just joined Hollywood. Maybe Hallmark channel. But, I also have a story I must complete. I know this one.

I sit down, and get started. Then I realize I haven’t eaten, had anything to drink, and haven’t peed for… 7 hours. It’s 1 AM. Why didn’t George check on me? I scroll up the pages to see how much I accomplished and realize it’s 25 pages. Well, I guess that’s a good start. I wander out to the kitchen, rummage around something quick to eat. Cheese. “Yep, that‘ll do.” I tell the fridge and swing it shut, munching on slices of Swiss as I grab a water and head to bed.

I text Gen 

GOT A GREAT START ON A NEW BOOK TODAY HOPE I CAN FINISH IT

Then I take care of nature, and plug in the phone and land on the bed simultaneously. Thank goodness I have no classes tomorrow. Ummm today.

I awake to 5 missed messages and 2 missed calls at 9. All from Genny. And George is nowhere to be found. He must have run to get lumber or something for a project. He’s always doing some kind of reno or build. 

MOM, NO MORE NEW BOOKS! FINISH ONE YOU STARTED!!

MOM, I JUST CALLED, TWICE! ARE YOU OK???

MOM. WHATS WRONG?

I stop scrolling through the messages and call her.

“Mom! Thank goodness! I thought you’d been abducted!

“No, Gen. I just got to bed late and slept in. What’s up?”

“Mom, you can tell the truth. Are you upset I got published first?”

“Oh geez, no Kit, umm Gen. I just got inspired, that’s all. I am super proud of you! Maybe I needed that to happen to get in the right headspace to write.” Maybe I can follow in her footsteps.

We finish the conversation out, talking about miscellaneous things, and she asks “How’s the kitten? Did you name it?”

“Oh shoot! Kitten! No, I haven’t named him yet, but I also haven’t thought about him since, last night. He was keeping me company for awhile, but hopped down and I haven’t seen him today. I’d better go and find the poor thing!” We say our goodbyes and I start the hunt. Room after room, I call “Kitten, here kitty.” I head upstairs to check for him, if he’s in our room, George will have a fit. No luck there, either. I text George

GOOD MORNING MY LOVE. HAVE YOU SEEN KITTEN?

GOOD MORNING, HON. WOW! THNX FOR ASKING ABOUT ME

SORRY! JUST WORRIED ABOUT THE… HELPLESS ONE

NO WORRIES. I’VE GOT HIM

WHY???

IT’S A SURPRISE

K

Five minutes later, in walks George, with a very fluffy Kitten. He has the prettiest blue ribbon tied round his neck.

“Oooohhh, isn’t he the prettiest thing! He’s so handsome. He’s like a little Tristan, I coo. I know, again. He really must love me. I send my story start to Gen. I read it to George, and ask both. “What d’ya think?” 

They both love it. Ugh. Gimme something I can change, fix, do!

Gen finally texts 

I THINK THEY ARE TOO QUICK

We go about our day. George does chores. I go back to the keyboard.

Do they go to quickly? Maybe…

I mean, it’s an hour’s drive or more to the hotel from the office. And then they have a drink, so 30 minutes or so… they are talking. Or maybe Isa has already been thinking about a change. I could write that in. That helps. But, she is right. It is too quick. Ugh.

I get up, pick up Kitten. That cannot be his name, I ask him, “What’s your name handsome? Hmmm? What is it?” 

I sit back down with Kitten in my lap, and review what I’ve written. (Pro tip, DON’T. Just write, until it’s all out on the page. THEN review. The desire to revise is just to strong. And that is a recipe for… well, not finishing any book you have started. Trust me, I am a pro at starting and not finishing a story; I have a hundred characters waiting to find out what happens to them.)

Gen texts

WELL. DONE YET?

NO. REVIEWING…

MOM. STOP. JUST WRITE. YOU TAUGHT ME. AND LOOK. I AM PUBLISHED. JUST WRITE.

I stop reviewing and pick up where I left off. Tristan and Isa are having a drink. They are talking about her coming to Vogue full time…

Tristan says, “It’s OK if your not ready. If you want to keep on as a freelancer, that’s fine.”

And Isa says, “Freelance? I am a pro…”

Suddenly, I realize: I have been a free-free lance author. I haven’t been paid for my work. I glance over at my unfinished stories and realize: I write for free. Only a hundred or so people. OK, a dozen or so people have read my work and they all love it. But why can’t I finish something for publication?

I’m scared. My daughter clearly isn’t. But, I am. Why? Do I not believe my stories? I do, because the characters are real to me. Their stories resonate for me. Am I not good enough to finish?

I text Gen. 

I DON’T THINK I CAN

She responds

MOM.

WHAT? I DON’T THINK I CAN FINISH

WHO TAUGHT ME ABOUT STORIES AND CHARACTERS AND LIFE ON THE PAGE?

LIFE?

MOM

WHAT IF THEY REJECT IT?

I ASKED MYSELF THAT A HUNDRED TIMES

BUT YOU GAVE ME THE ANSWER IN CLASS

I DID?

YES, YOU TAUGHT ME THAT THEIR STORIES NEED TO BE TOLD, FOR PEOPLE WHO NEED TO HEAR THEM. PEOPLE STRUGGLING WITH THE SAME THINGS NOW.

FINISH IT

I sigh, and turn to the keyboard again. Kitten purring away as I write the rest of the story. I am up late again, but I tell the story of Tristan and Isa. Tristan and Isolde, for a new generation to hear and understand. Love can’t be demanded. It cannot be bought. Love must happen. And to not finish that story is the true tragedy.I have to love them enough to finish their story. I can tell it. I can finish it for them, for Gen, for me.

I send a draft to Gen. She is my daughter, but she is a published author. She will know what needs to be fixed.

I turn off the computer. Tomorrow is revision day. I cuddle my kitten, and take him to his new house. “Bedtime, Tristan. Tomorrow is a busy day.” I whisper into the soft, handsome fur. I head up to bed, confident. that I can follow in my daughter’s footsteps.