Edges

by Patricia Parkinson


Edges


I spoke to a dear friend today about writing.

I love talking about writing, talking about the heart of writing, not the structure. I believe that you can know nothing about structure and still be an excellent writer. This is what I keep telling myself anyway, that, and if you don't have some “thing" that sets you apart or you don’t possess a magical, freaky insight into the human condition that makes the reader go, "Ohhh," when they read it, all the structure in the world won’t get you anywhere.

Anyway, we were discussing conflict. Barf. Isn't there enough grief in the world? I hate conflict and have avoided it as much as humanly possibly my entire life. It comes as no surprise that the conflict in my stories is somewhat hidden, invisible even. I refer to my conflict as, subtle.

"But you have to have conflict," my friend said. "And there has to be change. There has to be."

"Yeah," I said, and agreed even though spiritually I disagreed but didn't want to cause any conflict. See, it's ingrained in me.

We talked and mostly I listened. My friend is a brilliant writer. We lamented the shortage of happy ending stories and agreed that movies should come with an “Unhappy Ending” warning label so we can be prepared, once again. to have our hearts broken. Why do we have to have our hearts broken?

"Can't we just be happy?" I asked my friend.

Apparently not. If the story isn't about some form of suffering and turmoil and heartache told metaphorically with a symbolic theme, it doesn't stand a chance.

And then, well, let's not forget angst and loss. Loss makes for great angst. Odd angst, ie: the loss of Starbucks egg nog latte - if done right, is vulnerable in a quirky and unique way. True weirdness works best.

"And edge," my friend said. "let's not forget, everyone wants edge."

Edge. Edge? What is this elusive edge they seek? It makes me wonder, "Do I have to be a heroin addict to be a good writer?" How many more veins must I open? Have I opened any? I have. I'm sure of it. I think.

When you open a vein does it mean you have to slit it, like, boom! Heeloo? Can't you read that I committed suicide writing that last paragraph? Can't you feel the emotional wreckage it's left me in? Is this not enough...edge? Maybe not.

Maybe I'm not slitting a vein. Maybe I'm caressing my veins, getting to know them, getting closer to an edge that isn't a cliff. Maybe my edge leads to something wonderous and not to something to fear. I like to think that.

"Unless," my friend said. "It's beautifully written. That disqualifies everything else. Great writing is great writing, regardless.”

"You're a great writer,” I told my friend.

"Well, you're a good writer too."

"A good writer? I said you were a great writer."

"Good. Great. It's the same thing."

I nearly nodded but said instead, "No, it's not the same thing," and had conflict.

"Okay. Okay," my friend said, chuckling. "You're a great writer. You are. Okay?" Which facilitated change.

And we were happy.