Do you remember a little while ago we were talking about coincidence, and whether or not it had a place in literature?
When I began this blog about two months back it was with the utmost certainty that I would not include anything outside of writing life here. It soon became clear to me that it is near to impossible to write about oneself and writing a few times per week and not have tidbits of life seep in.
Yesterday morning I left the pool early in order to get ready for the funeral of a much loved mother and grandmother. My grandfather was being re-admitted to the hospital that same morning. A friend questioned me, and said “Ah, things always come in threes.”
But, this was only two, where was the third?
Lo and behold as I was driving on the highway the traffic came to a complete stop. Up ahead I saw a collision. As I got closer I saw it was a three car accident. One car had been sandwiched between a large van and another car; it had crashed head on with the medium. A man was pacing the highway with no shoes. Another was kneeling in the backseat, assisting an elderly woman and a young girl. They had injuries, but I do not know to what extent.
We’ve discussed the need to write quite a bit on this blog, and this was one of those times where I suffered strongly with this need. Yet I thought, this story is just too full, it would be unrealistic. Every time I have read about 3s in a story I have rolled my eyes.
I still have not wrote a single word about that experience (until now, I realize). Something felt off, and I chalked it up to coincidence. Yet, this morning, I found out the reason was because I was still missing a piece of the puzzle. And that was the six brave souls who spent a night by their mother’s graveside on her first night of occupancy. Now, my story was complete. Immediately I wondered if it was wrong to view this suffering as a story, but then, all of life is but stories.
I wondered if writing would be a way of committing it to memory, or a way of sorting it out in my head – a sort of self-exploration, and then I thought perhaps it would be a form of escape. Escape into fiction, even if it is only fictionalized life. Maybe it is all of the above.
In times of distress, or grieving, what solace do you think writing can offer?