Wednesday, May 19, 2010

How to begin again, and is it fair that there are final chapters? Thinking of Amelia . . .

In the novel, I have a coda. In it Amelia is in the cockpit, flying towards Howland. I use her own words, spoken into the void. Not that the Itasca, the ship waiting to spot her, couldn't hear. It was that Amelia couldn't hear their response. There was one moment of contact, but that was it. I presume to channel what she was feeling and thinking. Anxiety. Exhaustion. Exhilaration. And ultimately, regret. When my own mother pulled me close to whisper that I was the one who got her, a few weeks back, I think she was counting up her own regrets. They are the things that stay with us, I suppose. And that haunt us.

But life is full of other things. I happen to believe that the more one risks, the more one gets from life. Granted, the risks I've taken are writ small. I've spoken my mind, often in an impolitic manner. As a writer, I've been rejected over and over and over. And I've fallen in love, and loved my friends wholeheartedly. It doesn't always work out in the end, or work out in the way I imagined. Yet I believe it's worth it. Without putting myself out there, without risking my heart and my live-lie-hood where would I be? And who would I be? No one I could recognize.

Anyhow, there it is. My Amelia moment for the day. All this time spent with her has made me think a great deal about taking chances. And how important they are. How they really make life worth living. So here's the question I pose. How does one live life to the fullest? What chances do we take? And what risks do we force ourselves to take?

11 comments:

  1. It's a question of whether the potential reward is worth the objectively-evaluated risk. And if the risk is death itself? Well, only the person doing the risking can decide if the potential reward is important enough. It's no one else's right to decide.

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  2. EXCELLENT questions....Will take them to heart, and if something comes up, will get back to you...Thanks for asking.

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  3. Doesn't the answer depend on how much of a narcissist you are? When you add up the costs do you go beyond yourself? I think Amelia mostly didn't.

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  4. Hallie, I'm not sure I understand your comment. Are you suggesting that a person who takes risks is a narcissist? Or vice-versa? Why?

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  5. I think you're right, she mostly didn't. Yet where would I be if her death hadn't had endless repercussions. I'd be without a book, and without a theme.

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  6. I think Amelia did take into consideration the potential costs to other people when making her go-no go decisions. For example, she left a letter exonerating the govt. from any obligation to conduct a search for her in the event her 1935 Pacific solo flight HI-CA wasn't successful, and she made financial provisions for her mother and sister in the event of her own death. Further, I think that she was taking into account the fact that the rewards were not just for herself. If the potential costs went beyond herself, well, so did the rewards. It would not be an exaggeration to say that she flew for women's rights. That's not just something I'm projecting onto her; it was her own conscious intent, to judge by her writings and speeches.

    If we have to limit ourselves to doing only things that have no potential negative consequences for anyone else, then we won't get anything worthwhile done. She knew that too, and it's unfair to infer that she was selfish just because her personal rewards were big (until they weren't :) ).

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  7. You're misunderstanding my comment, and I think also Hallie's. I was asking a general question. I think she meant that Amelia basically was unselfish, while narcissists were selfish, and making a distinction, but perhaps I'm wrong. At any rate, I agree that Amelia always did consider the cost of her actions in every possible way. I definitely see her as someone who always measured that, but I also wanted to write about what happens after a loss, a death and what the people who have to cope with it go through. There's no way someone can be prepared for that, or indeed no way that the person who dies can know, death is always something that changes us, loss is what shapes many lives. I wanted this to be the theme of the book and Amelia's loss was something her sister always had to live with. That's the topic of my novel, love and loss, and that's what I meant with my comment.

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  8. Oh, ok. Thanks for the clarification.

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  9. What risks am I willing to take? How has avoiding risk decreased the fullness of my life?
    I heard a Mark Twain quote once that comes to mind: "You might as well go out on a limb, that is where all the fruit is." Going out on a limb, being bold and risking ridicule and rejection, are part of the arc of many creative or humanitarian achievements. Amelia had enormous courage and consciously worked to break the mold of stereotypes that restricted women. I am truly and deeply grateful to her and to the thousands of early feminists who endured humiliation and taunting and cruelty to pave the wave for me and all women alive today. I don't want to live a life dictated by fear, though I have many times chosen the less frightening option when faced with a decision. That's not necessarily bad, but as I get older I am also listening more to my heart and less to the doubt and fear. I'm glad you brought up these questions, and I am moving out of the narrowness of self-protection and into the openness of life's flow, towards a fuller life. A full life doesn't necessarily have to be something visible to others, it doesn't have to be flashy. A full life is daring to open the heart and feel keenly, to not hide behind self-deception, and to connect with life at a deep level. Mary Oliver has a great line, something like "I don't want to just be a visitor here."

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  10. Thank you Colleen, yes. I don't want to be a visitor here either, but sometimes it does feel that way. Visiting one's own life rather than truly inhabiting, living it. It's what drew me to Amelia as well, her intensity, her fervid independence, her unconventional and remarkable daring.

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