Writers are different, aren't they?

One day, one hot and sunny day, when Roddy was 6 years old and learning to read, write and spell at school, the bailiffs came and dismantled his life forever. Later in his career, when he had already written several novels, Roddy understood it was not the bailiffs who had dismantled his life but what his mother had said. It was probably a throw-away comment, the sort of comment that any mother might make after being evicted from her home and having 3 children to take care of. But what he remembered was his mother's tone of voice, a voice normally so full of confidence, a voice on which you could always depend. But there it was, that hot and sunny and blue afternoon, spelling out his name and changing him forever. 

"What am I going to do about R-O-D-D-Y?"

What was so special about him that his mother had deemed it necessary to protect him from her concern? Did his mother not know he could spell? What was so normal about his brother and sister? They had clearly posed no such problems and had already been packed off to some haven and out of the reach of the bailiffs' violations. He - the peculiar R-O-D-D-Y - was clearly different, a bit odd, perhaps, and someone who needed special care and protection.

This feeling was reinforced some months later when his best friend told him his mother had commented that: "Roddy was one of those strange people who liked to take long walks alone."

Twaddle! At least, that is what Roddy the adult knew now. He had always liked to be alone with his thoughts. He loved to dissect every conversation and scene he had heard or seen. He lost himself in creating possibilities about next week, next year and wondering about this, and ruminating on that. He loved to analyse and to live in his introverted world, to be receptive to ideas that other people did not seem to care about.

But Roddy the adult also knew that "introverted" was often considered as less desirable than "extroverted." Nonetheless, Roddy was comfortable with his ruminations, his solitude and he loved to consider the lives of others.  He certainly did not think of himself as lonely. Alone, yes. he needed to be alone in order to write. In the beginning, Roddy came to believe that "loneliness" and "special" went hand in hand and were both normal parts of a writer's life. Later, about the time he wrote his third novel, he was having doubts. “Loneliness” he thought, came from a sense of separation. And it stemmed not from writing, but from an individual's social and personal life.

He was not lonely.

On his walks he considered the books he was reading or the films he had seen and took the opportunity to think about the process that had gone into the making of the film or the writing of the book. He loved to consider the writer or the director and what had inspired them to take on that particular project or to tackle that particular theme in the first place. Then, he considered the "what-if" scenarios and alternative endings.  

About the time he began writing his fifth novel, he questioned the idea of the strange, the abnormal and asked himself the question whether “normal” really existed. Roddy knew he could aspire to be average, but frankly, he knew, he did not want that. On the other hand, he had never had a need to be different just for the sake of it. He admired those who wore outrageous clothes and led a bizarre lifestyle but he knew that such a life was not for him. What was important was that he questioned norms and normality. It did no harm to ask question, he told himself - even at a royal wedding. Yes, when all the others in the room were howling and sniffling and blowing their noses, he considered it perfectly legitimate for him, that quiet and moderate person, to ask whether the whole show was just an poor attempt at myth-making. 

There was nothing peculiar or strange about reflecting, was there?

He often found his mind wandering when having a conversation with others. He imagined the conversation as part of a bigger story and dived into the minds of imagined characters. He found that jumping into these diverse minds gave him an insight regarding the wants and needs of real people in his own life! In other words, he developed the ability to empathise.

He knew only too well that it had been a struggle to reconcile the feelings of another person with his own feelings. He found now, as an experienced novelist, that he was able to look at a situation from the perspective of others. By developing the ability to put himself in the shoes of others, he understood them. In this way, he eventually, understood the words that had haunted him since childhood:  "What am I going to do about R-O-D-D-Y? and the comment: "Roddy was one of those strange people who liked to take long walks alone." Through standing in the place of others, he at last understood that neither the question nor the comment were a reflection on him but a reflection of the state of mind of the people who had uttered the words in the first place. 

Is this short piece about me? No, but it might apply to me or any other writer for that matter who has been stimulated or formed by some throw-away comment that says more about the speaker than the listener. Therefore, I can say, in all honesty that: 

This article is fictitious. Names, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

But only I could have written it. 

 

 

Comments

[Christopher Anthony Goddard]

It happened while mother was preparing lunch, so she said later. I used to go home for lunch but as this was my last day at school before the holidays I was only mildly surprised when the message came that I was to stay at school for lunch. Was it at the same time or later that I was told not to go home after school... that I would be going to stay with aunt Joan... which was when I began to realize that something was 'not quite right'

[Robert Goddard]

I always wonder how accurate this memory is. I think it was uncle Peter who was driving the car and I think I stayed with him for a while but.....