The Sadness of Maturity
It was a lyrical picture-book text. The subject was spring. And it bounced back because the editor found the tone, somehow, too sad.
My agent was bemused, but when he passed the comment on to me, I understood.
An undercurrent of sadness often shows through in my writing. There is, truth be told, an undercurrent of sadness in me.
I have never been a jolly type, even when I was a child. I have always been thoughtful, even pensive. I love to laugh--don't we all?--but making others laugh is rarely my goal. And I simply can't write comedy. When I try, the words on the page feel instantly false. Or at least they feel inconsequential. The writers I admire most deeply are the ones like Katherine Paterson who can make you laugh and then, in the next breath, make you cry.
The laughter makes the tears more heartfelt. The tears make the laughter more sweet. How I would love to be able to do both!
I once heard someone refer to "the sadness of maturity," and when I heard the phrase, I knew it was right. Part of maturity is simply accepting the sadness we have all gathered throughout our lives.
This time of year is always a challenging one for me. My son died on February 9th, six years ago. I've never been a believer in anniversaries, except as something to choose to celebrate. And after Peter died, I saw no reason to renew my grief each year and didn't expect to have it happen.
Oddly, I've discovered that the memory of the time of my son's death seems to live in the cells of my body. My body remembers even when I tell myself that this month, this day is no different than any other. My very cells seem to grieve.
And my stories grieve, too. Every time of year. Peter's death changed who I am. How could it not change my stories?
The first novel I wrote after my son's death was The Very Little Princess. I had presold the story to Stepping Stones, Random House, based on a brief description. A tiny china doll comes to life and, upon seeing her own perfection in the dollhouse mirror, decides that, obviously, she is a princess. The doll is equally certain that the not-nearly-so-perfect giantess looming over her is her servant.
A fun premise. Right? Except that in my hands it became a story of loss, a story of mortality. By the end, the doll comes truly to life--becomes not just animated but flesh and blood, mortal--by learning to cry. "I know this isn't what you're expecting," I told the editor when I turned in the manuscript, "but in this season of loss, this is what I can do." She was brave to accept it.
Are tears a problem in stories for young people? It depends, of course, on the age of the intended readers. I have received a couple of furious letters from adults who thought this novella hurtful to their young readers. And I understand. The younger children are, the more protective we are . . . and need to be. But on the other hand, we are not a culture that deals well with sad endings, whoever the audience may be. And we can't pretty up our children's lives as if they lived in a Disney story.
Still . . . if I am ever jealous of another writer, it is of those who can write funny, especially those who can write funny and still say something important, still touch deep places in our hearts.
But I am who I am. My life has been what it has been. And there is no question, the sadness of maturity informs my work. Even, apparently, when I'm exalting spring.