Fiction Imitates Life

I have been AWOL from the blog for quite some time now (what else is new?!).  There have been so many family goings-on since I was here last, and I definitely want to get my online scrapbook of memories up to date.  But there's a reason I haven't been blogging as often as I should...because I've been busy working on a different sort of writing project, another novel that I hope to publish myself as a gift to my grandchildren. I have been working on this book, an historical fiction novel that is a sequel to Erin's Ring (but a "stand alone" book, I believe) for a little more than a year now.  I've blogged about this several times over at my secret blog, where I sometimes write posts dedicated solely to the subject of writing.

I love writing fiction.  I love creating characters who start out inspired in part by real people I know, but then totally take on lives of their own once the writing gets underway.  This happened with both of the books I've had published so far, but especially with Finding Grace. And I'm finding that with this new story titled Marguerite's Diary, there is one character who, though she isn't just like me or meant to represent me, shares many of my thoughts, feelings and passions.  She's a 19th-century Belgian immigrant named Camille--a wife, mother, and homemaker, a pioneer woman with five children and another baby on the way.

This passage (still a WIP) is about Camille, but I could have almost written it about myself, if I'd lived when and where she did:

Home was Camille’s happy place, to be sure; and she felt that making a warm, safe, beautiful dwelling where her family could grow and flourish was a noble endeavor, a true vocation.  She was a wife first and a mother second, and then homemaker was her third-highest calling.

Making a home: it took so much more than wooden planks and shingles held together by nails!  It was no use having a well-built roof that would shield them from the weather if what was found underneath that roof wasn’t cared for properly.  Camille believed that it was a wife and mother’s job to create for her family a domestic Church, an earthly reflection of what they could expect to find in the next life, in Paradise.  That’s how seriously she took her housekeeping duties.  A home needed someone to tend to it lovingly, to keep it clean and orderly, to give it the decorative touches that might not even be consciously noticed (by that trio of little ruffians she’d birthed, especially, and their doting father) but were unconsciously appreciated, nonetheless.  She had made this home her life’s work, and she loved it so.  Indeed, she loved the safe haven she and Henri had created for their family out here in the Wisconsin wilderness so much that she sometimes wondered if she’d made an idol of it.  Did she love it too much?

Camille had to remind herself daily that this home was not her real home, and that her only purpose on this earth was finding her way to that one.  To becoming a saint in Heaven.  She prayed fervently for detachment from worldly comforts and desires, but she knew that her great weakness, her attachment to the things of this world, was something she would always struggle to overcome.  Every time she thought of her good fortune—of her happy marriage and healthy children, of Henri’s financial success that had afforded them the lovely nest she’d feathered with such care—she was also assailed with a fear of losing everything.   “God, help me to yearn only for You!” she would silently cry, whenever she became too enamored of the things of this world.

But the joy Camille felt when she looked around the large, sturdy wood cabin Henri had built for his family was achingly deep, almost painful in its intensity.  All about her, the history of her most cherished loved ones was on display.  Everything she saw, no matter which way she turned, filled her with satisfaction and gratitude, and her heart was full to overflowing.  Even the sight of dirty overalls tossed haphazardly on the floor by one of her careless boys was merely a reminder of how lucky she and Henri were to have so many surviving children, whose clothes bore the telltale signs of a busy life filled with farm chores and tree climbing and all kinds of outdoor activity. 

She stooped down to pick up the overalls, adding them to the laundry basket in the corner.  It was full to overflowing and would keep her busy at the washbasin in the coming days. But how lucky she was to have so many dirty clothes to wash!  It was a sign that there were many bodies to care for in this house.

Camille’s eyes, watery now, lit on her grandmother’s dishes, which were lovingly arranged on a shelf of the oak sideboard in the dining area.  She moved closer, so that she could better see the delicate hand-painted flowers that graced the rims of the porcelain plates.  She licked her thumb and used it to wipe away a bit of dust she’d spied on the edge of one piece.  Next, she removed the gilded lid of the sugar bowl and checked to make sure that it was full; it was, so she gently replaced the lid.

From the sideboard, the happy homemaker made her way to the pie safe in the kitchen.  She opened the door to check on the two fresh ones stored there.  She leaned in, breathed deeply, and smiled; they smelled delectable, and Henri would be so pleased!  Her husband worked so hard to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table; making him dishes that he loved was her favorite way to show him how grateful she was and how much she loved him.

So now you know how weak I am, how much in need of grace I am...but also how much I love being a wife and mother and making a home for my family!

I am 126 pages into a book that will probably be about 200 pages long by the time all's said and done.  It's a big BIG story, involving an amazing and awe-inspiring historical event about which few people really know (I never did!).  I have gotten to the point in the narrative where things really start to heat up--and it's at times like this that I usually get a case of writer's block, because I'm afraid I won't be able to do the story I'm working on justice.  Wish me luck, dear readers!  I could use it (as well as prayers, of course!).

*I used the phrase "full to overflowing" twice in the above passage; I kind of did it on purpose, to show how many things in Camille's life could be described that way.  But do you think it's too repetitive?  (Come on, play editor!  Leave me a comment, I promise I won't be offended!)