As writers and consumers of the written word, we must live with the idea of omissions. The process of getting a story on the page is one of inherent loss.
Some of you know that I lost my father this past June. I am so thankful for the times I listened, really listened to his life stories, and for the questions I asked.
One night over drinks, my father told me his story of survival: a plane crash in Central America in the late 60's, drug runners with guns, a pilot's last words in a language he did not know.
I grew up in suburbia with a Malibu Barbie dream condo and skis on my feet. What I understand of that day in the Guatemalan jungle is far less than my father was able to verbalize. Someday, when some small piece of his plane crash story creeps into one of my novels, as fragments of memories and experiences often do, readers will understand far less than I was able to articulate on the page.
As creators, we must learn to live with that loss, to be okay with the reader not knowing the precise slant of the brutal equatorial rays as they invaded the cockpit at an unnatural angle or the caliber of weapon my father picked up for the first time in his young life to defend himself as he walked for help. As in other aspects of life where loss lives, what choice do writers have? We'll never get it all in.
In fiction, we aren't meant to chronicle anything that closely. We must also leave room for the reader to unpack his fragments. We leave the essence and hope it is enough.
