My previous entry is a good example of something I notice all the time–the way my writing life and reality often collide. Usually it isn’t so strong. Most of the time I’ll borrow a trouble from here or a new blouse from there. Often I do it unconsciously. But lately, real life has been storming into my writing, even when I don’t want it to. That’s been the case with Ricky.
Since I’ve become preoccupied with his story, thoughts of him have been inserting themselves into everything I write. I’m conflicted. On the one hand, writing about Ricky is a way of honoring his short life. In another, I feel like I’m taking advantage of his story and his memory, using them for my own gain. Even if the only thing I’m gaining is more story.
I had every intention of removing Ricky from the “I Won’t Be Home For Christmas” piece before posting it. As I read through my draft, I planned to just take out his bits, maybe write something publishable about him later. But then I didn’t and I don’t know why except it seemed like it all fit together. It didn’t feel like exploitation.
I’ve been doing a little work on a new piece of fiction, and right away, Ricky was in there. His presence gave me an idea for shaping the story, too. I swear it feels sometimes like that little boy is here, right by my side, saying “It’s okay to write about me. I like it. I don’t want people to forget.”
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