On Finding a Setting

August 13, 2008

This evening D and I had a conversation on the phone that lasted more than our typical phone conversations now-a-days. Actually, we had an argument, but that’s not what this post is about. In the midst of all of it, during the resolution of the whole thing — the time when we are done with the heightened feelings and adamantly trying to prove a point, when we both re-cap what we need and try to find some sort of compromise — I closed my eyes for a moment and could picture my apartment back in Arkansas so clearly, right down to the feel of my bed and the cat’s tail ticking against my leg and the way my bed creaked when I moved. We spent a lot of time talking on the phone in those days, back when he was the California branch of our relationship.

It’s funny that the very thing the argument began with (our arguments rarely end with what they began with) was the very thing I was picturing: Setting. This post is not about the argument, so I’m not going to go into the details of what transpired. For the past few days, however, I’ve been attempting to put into words a discovery I made on the beach Saturday. But I’ve also been trying to challenge myself to improve my writing style so it’s slightly less amateur and emotive. Today I tried writing a post entirely devoid of “I” as a subject. It just doesn’t work in blogging. This is what I came up with:

“One of the major components that separates a seasoned writer from an amateur is the emphasis on setting. The category of seasoned writers is by no means this girl’s dwelling place, but freshman year fiction writing left me with a better understanding of setting in writing. Heck, this blog nearly tripled in its readership once it took on the personal of a Midwestern transplant living in Los Angeles. Or maybe it was the advertising to friends on Facebook that did that.” Can you say boring textbook? I just need to stop trying to justify blogging with failed attempts to turn this entirely narcissistic thing into something literary. It’s a blog. Of course it’s going to have a high degree of gush.

Anyway, what I really wanted to say is that often amateur writers neglect setting in their work, and they leave their poor characters floating around in a readers’ mind in banal, shadowy places like generic bedrooms, rather than putting them someplace specific. In real life, we live in specific places: not just any room, but my room with the pile of laundry on the bathroom floor and the broken blinds and the stale scent of herbal shampoo. Not just any old park, but the park with the statue of the man who invented the chocolate bar. J.R.R. Tolkien is so fantastic with his settings that I am having such a terrible time getting through The Lord of the Rings. Any time Frodo or the other hobbits think of the shire and how they long for their home, I start crying. Homesickness…meh.

Saturday, le roommates and I went to the beach, and the fact confronted me that I’ve only been to the beach three times in the last seven months even though is less than five miles from my apartment. And by going to the beach, I mean donning a bathing suit with at least a slight intention of getting wet. Saturday was the first day since I moved here that I actually immersed myself in the Pacific. And then I realized that part of the reason that I have been homesick to some degree since I left for college back in 2001, moving away from Minnesota for the very first time, is because I have never given myself a chance to get to know the land in any other place.

If you were to ask me about Minnesota, I wouldn’t just say that I lived in a house there or went to high school there. I would tell you about the countless snow structures we built and how we would hang our mittens and hats and scarves over the radiator in our first house to let them get warm before we put them on. I would tell you about the mulberry bushes in the backyard and how they would become so ripe and juicy that you could bump the branches and they’d fall to the ground, washing it in purple, and how the birds would poop mulberry seeds all over the patio. I would tell you how our family built that patio with bricks and sand and cement blocks, and it all went quite well until the ice that winter built up under the bricks made them explode. Every winter the fire department would flood the park for ice skating, and Jack Frost would paint our windows. I remember how it feels to lie in my bedroom, the exact way the bed fits my body, and how it is to wake up there to the sounds and smells of absolute comfort — to knowing the people you love most in the world are only a wall away. When I was a little girl, in our first house, I could always tell who was coming up stairs by the rhythm of their steps. Mom would always stop at the bottom to pick up toys and bring them up. There were twelve steps at my first house. Sixteen at my second.

I never gave myself the chance to know Arkansas that well. There was the damp and musty feeling of our house on Maple Street, where I lived with 3 other girls, and the sounds of the frogs outside my window in that studio above a professor’s garage. There was the feeling of desperation and sadness when I finished college, broke up with my boyfriend, and moved out of that apartment all in a few days. But the same elements and concretes are not there. I was so busy being productive that I didn’t take the time to memorize the number of steps from the ground to my door. These were merely places, apartments for a temporary life. It’s no wonder they never felt like home.

Sometimes I think that I will never feel at home again unless I get married, have kids, and settle down somewhere. Nothing reminds me of home more than watching my niece and nephew play and seeing again the things that are important to children. For my niece, it is wearing pink, putting on chapstick, and reading books. My nephew just wants to run everywhere with his binky in his mouth. They want other kids to play with, adults to entertain them, and lots and lots of cookies. They remind me of what it was like to grow up with an older brother and what it was like to have such a big living room… what it was like to have a house not just cover you, but protect you. There were all the alcoves and crannies to that place… the towel cupboard you could climb inside and close the door, the secret storage closet in my brother’s room, the turning cupboard in the kitchen corner where breakfast cereal was kept.

At the same time, I know that my life is here in L.A. now, at least for the next few years, and I need to be investing myself here. I need to pursue the land with the same intention that I pursue the friends I am making here. I need to count the steps from my carport to my apartment. I need to go to the beach every weekend and find a spot to memorize. I need to stop floating around in this generic place and make it specific. I need to find my setting.

Thank you, friends, for all your support and prayers. I’m still more homesick than I’ve ever been in my life, but the feeling of loss is inching away. D’s sister E is staying with me this summer while she does an internship at MTV, and we, along with Roommate Girl J, went to our church small group last night. It helped to be surrounded by the few friends I’ve made since moving here. Today I got some praise from my boss at work, and it couldn’t have come at a better time. Also, I just got a raise and health insurance, so even though I know I won’t be there forever, it was nice to have some affirmation.

It’s hard to describe what I’ve been going through for the past few days. Last night at small group I told someone that when I got off the plane in Tennessee to see my family, it was raining, and the smell and dampness of it all made me long for home. I didn’t realize how much I missed the sound of my dad emptying his pockets of loose change — a sound I remember from being a little girl, lying in my parents’ bed while Dad added to the wealth of an overflowing and cracked Cool Whip container on his dresser. I thought we must be rich because of that huge mound of change just sitting there in all its shiny glory.

The trip to Tennessee was the first time my two-year-old niece L recognized me without getting shy when I first saw her. My nephew E is walking and charmed everyone at the wedding. Even though my family has always been great, it’s amazing how much those kids complete us. And I’ve discovered that I can make those kids laugh like nobody’s business. Being an aunt is one of the most amazing things I’ve ever experienced. My favorite cousins and aunts and uncles were all there, including my cousin S and her husband T. It was the perfect weekend. We went on walks. We went to museums. We went to a farmers’ market in the middle of the square. My cousin R got married. We danced at his wedding. We all went to watch L swim in the pool. She informed us that there were no sharks in the pool. Apparently L has been concerned about sharks ever since Finding Nemo became part of her movie repertoire.

On Monday I cried all the way back to LA in the plane. Like my first year of college, the first several months of this adventure have felt like summer camp. Being reunited with my family and then having to leave again seemed wrong. Culture shock is setting in. I’ve forgotten what that’s like. And I think part of the reason this homesickness seems so much worse than it was in college is because having that niece and nephew have helped me understand a little more what being a parent is like. It has made me understand a taste of how proud my parents are of me and my brother, and how great it must’ve been for them, for those few little days, to have us all in adjacent motel rooms and clambering into the same mini van.

Yes. I miss them. I was crying even before I left them. I was hoping that the time away would make me excited to come back to L.A., but alas, all I can think of is winter melting away from Southern Minnesota and the dank, musty smell of Dad’s auto repair shop. Perhaps it is good to be so far away because when I think of home, I think of perpetual Christmas and all those perfect weekends when it served as the getaway and not the prison. Some days I wonder if any other place could feel like home to me. Even though I lived in Arkansas for six years during and after college, it never had the same appeal. Home has always been a word reserved for the North Country.


Sadie tagged me in a movie meme last week and I haven’t had a chance to respond yet. Here is my response:

Top 10 Movies:

1. Breakfast at Tiffany’s
2. Rear Widow
3. Sullivan’s Travels
4. My Fair Lady
5. A Very Long Engagement
6. Annie Hall
7. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
8. Duck Soup
9. Mary Poppins
10. Pretty In Pink

I don’t really tag people in memes anymore, but if they want to do this, I’d be interested to know favorite movies from Katie, Betsy, Amity, and anyone else who cares to comment.