I‘m not sure if this is a character flaw, but I don’t like to write or read about completely happy stories. Not to say that I don’t like my happy endings (I do!), but I seem to relate more to stories where the characters have to struggle. I’m not a fan of pure escapism stories for that reason. I don’t like stories where everything is handed over to the characters on a silver platter, of badasses not even having to think about the problems they solve.
In my own writing, that “between a rock and a hard place” situation comes up fairly often. It is the healthiest way, I think, to capture the rage I feel over daily life, which seems to enjoy asking impossible choices one after another. Today, for example, is my son’s 5th birthday. I’m alone sick with the kids at home, he has no presents, and they’ve only had pancakes for the whole day. My daughter had been looking forward to surprising him with a gift…she had been doing chores around the house in exchange for money so she could afford it. But the past few days my husband (who has the only car) has been busy working overtime at the factory (for no pay but that’s another story altogether) and has been coming home late, and today he has to do a scheduled maintenance for a client because work there has backed up because of the aforementioned overtime at the other place, and while it’s easy enough to say “No” to a client, that’s still money this household sorely needs, so that takes precedence.
My kids are wonderfully patient creatures. I’m thankful for that. My 8-year-old daughter started crying earlier because she had no present for her brother, and my son tried to calm her down by saying she didn’t need to get him one. I’ve once remarked to my husband that I really don’t know what to bribe my kids with. It doesn’t take a lot to make them happy. A trip to the library, food, a hike, and they’re content.
So I remind myself of the little things and that this right now is infinitely better than when we lived in the trailer and my husband worked 12-hour days six days a week because no other place would hire him as a mechanic at industry rate, and much better than when he was barely sleeping and working two jobs while I went to college. He worked graveyards and took care of our daughter during the day; she was fussy and it was a good day if he managed to catch four hours’ worth of sleep. Most days, it was two. I spent so many nights and mornings terrified he would fall asleep on the road and get in an accident and I’d never see him again. Lying on a cold bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if there’s anything you could’ve done better in life. I wouldn’t wish that feeling on my worst enemy.
What happened instead was that he would fall asleep at work. And instead of making arrangements for him, his employer fired him (after which they hurriedly tried to cover their tracks by hiring two people to replace him because apparently it was against policy to have just one guy in a graveyard shift in that environment). When my husband told the HR about his situation–two jobs, taking care of our daughter–the HR simply shrugged and said, “That’s your decision.” And then they escorted him out of the building as if he had done something horrible instead of a man trying to keep his family alive.
Even just thinking about it now makes me angry.
It is, of course, overall a bad situation for many people these days. Employers think they can get away with everything. Housing prices in the Lower Mainland are out of whack. I was reading an article earlier about how the average income is around $100k less than they should be to be able to afford a house in most municipalities. Gas, car insurance, food, and childcare are pretty damn pricey, too. If I went back to work, I’d basically just be handing my income over to the babysitter. Just have to find a way to bottle up that rage and pour it somewhere productive. So I write about people who are damned if they do and damned if they don’t, and who often find themselves in situations beyond hellish. I write about them trying to hold on to what little sanity there remains in the world, what goodness there is, the stuff that really matters. This is particularly important for me to remember when I return to start on the third draft of The Xiaran Mongrel, the final book of the Annals of the Bitch Queen trilogy. Make magic out of crap, and so on. It’s all I can do.
