breakinglight11: (Default)
Content note: spousal violence, sexual assault, spoilers for Mrs. Hawking parts 2 and 3



Normally when I write these little speculative scenelets from not-immediately-relevant points in the Hawking timeline, I post them to my journal with some musing about the story and how the piece at hand fits in. Often they are from points that will never actually feature in the main shows, but are still canonically part of the story and inform the events in the plays we do see.

This scene definitely count as an example, however, it stands apart from every other one I’ve ever written.

As I mentioned, I try to keep the Hawking shows more or less family friendly, without pulling punches with the drama. You could maybe debate me on that— Elena Zakharova is a drug addict, Christopher Austerlitz is understood to have sexually assaulted a maid —but we avoid vulgarity, excessive darkness, or much in the way of sexuality. Even when something like that is present, it tends to be alluded to obliquely— Justin and Miss Sherba, for example, are definitely have meant to have had sex at some point during the course of part three, but we let that fact remain an unspoken implication. I’ve joked that with an asexual protagonist and the rest of the cast made up mostly of Victorian prudes and goody-goodies, it’s easy to get away with nobody ever wanting to talk about sex!

But something that has always been part of the fabric of the story has been that Mrs. Hawking’s marriage to the Colonel involved rape. Neither of them exactly saw it this way— he couldn’t conceive of a woman enthusiastically consenting to sex, she filed it under “all the reasons marriage was abhorrent to me” —but any and all sexual activity between them is what we the modern audience would understand to be assault. This underlies a lot of Mrs. Hawking’s anger and antipathy at her husband and her position in life— but we have never made direct reference to it.

The daily reality of what their marriage must have been like took me literally years to conceive of. I kept tripping over the fact that they were unhappily bound together for nineteen years, and yet never had an honest conversation about their problems with each other. I knew such things did happen, so I know it wasn’t impossible, but it was hard to imagine that frank truth would never come out somehow— even if only in a moment where nerves were frayed so thin the parties involved couldn’t hold back their feelings anymore.

I balanced it by planning out the epochs of it, from the screaming fights of the early years, to the cold silence after they lost the baby, to the near-decade the Colonel spent abroad to get out of the house, to the final handful of years they basically lived around one another. But it really came down to having to adjust my mindset to imagine what people without a modern mentality and its bias toward openness and honesty about one’s feelings, particularly to one’s partner. These are Victorian people; they don’t always have the language and understanding to even grasp their own feelings, much less express them, and they are bound by proprieties that we may not be. These things combine to make it so honest communication might have been literally impossible, as they would not have known how to say these things to each other.

This scene is meant to sort of typify what their life together would have looked like. I think this was a fairly representative moment of at least the early few years of their marriage, before things grew so icy they didn’t even fight anymore. It’s heavier and darker than what I want the main shows to focus on; this will CERTAINLY never feature in any of them. But I believe it’s an important thing to understand when trying to grasp why Mrs. Hawking’s marriage was so damaging to her.

This was tough to write. And being a slightly squeamish writer, I’m always just a little embarrassed to create anything of this nature. But I think this is a meaningful piece. I think it’s emotionally honest— and true to the larger narrative I’ve created.

Content note for spousal violence and sexual assault.

Mustn't Fight - from the early timeline of Mrs. Hawking )
breakinglight11: (CT photoshoot 1)
I've known it all my life, but I've never thought of it in these terms.

I was almost a dead baby.
breakinglight11: (CT photoshoot 1)
If somebody came up to you and asked, "Guess who you know who spent the afternoon taking pictures of baby graves," I'm sure by now your first, second, and third guess would be me. Hell, the dead babies in the graves would know it was me. Which makes sense, since as it so happens, that is in fact how I spent the afternoon.



I don't know why I find the loss of babies so particularly fascinating. It's certainly tied into my greater fixation of Complicated Feelings Regarding Babies which informs so much of my literary work. But it's probably because it's so uniquely tragic. The loss of a child is supposed to be the deepest pain there is. Even if you never knew them, you were hoping for them, ready to be a parent, and then all that gets dashed away. And it's a loss of potential-- they could have been anything, and now that will never be.



Years ago, I learned that my grandmother had a stillbirth in addition to her nine miscarriages before she had any live children. I've never been able to get that out of my mind, especially since the dead baby girl didn't have a name, and because they couldn't afford a headstone, no one knows where she is buried anymore. The thought of that stillbirth inspired the ones that made it into my writing, starting with Baby Girl Royce in The Stand, and more prominently, Gabriel Hawking.



I've been walking through this cemetery for years, so it's super-strange I never noticed before, given my longtime obsession with baby-related tragedy. But apparently there's a little cluster of baby graves there! They have some interesting and melancholy qualities to them. Many have only one date on them-- were they born dead? Or, with the ones with only a year, did they die before their first birthday? And almost all of them had lamb motifs, somewhere in their design.



I find that moving, for some reason. The Lamb collects unto Himself the lambs that were cut too soon. And look at these nameless twins, with only one date. Two dead babies. Can you imagine?



It occurred to me that I could write a scene for a future Mrs. Hawking story where somebody, probably Nathaniel, goes to visit the graves of the Colonel and Gabriel. I'm not sure how to work it in, or what would happen in the scene, but I wondered what a grave for a child who hadn't lived would look like. Now I know. One date on it, with a representation of a lamb, and not always with a name.

Cry

Feb. 8th, 2013 10:36 pm
breakinglight11: (CT photoshoot 1)
I'm sorry I keep posting. But I'm a mess and I have no other outlet right now. And I'm sad and scared and I just don't know what to do with myself. So I post and post and post.

I'm here in my house all by myself. Mostly that's okay. I like being by myself. Sometimes it's all I want when I'm upset. The eyes on me, the pity, can cut into me like knives. But the quiet is huge. My brain is so full of bad thoughts. Have been keeping the TV on continuously to distract me. But even getting my mind off of it feels bad. Here I am, sitting here alone in my house, not sure if I'm thinking too much of my mother dying, or not thinking about it enough. And I'm trapped here by the snow.

It's snowing in Pennsylvania too. Not as bad as here, but it's still a real storm. Will the hospital be okay? Do they have the staff they should when people are scared of the weather? Will they be there to take care of my mother? What if they lose power? What if my dad can't get to her? What if she takes a bad turn in the night and she's all alone? What if she dies before I can get home, and the snow is so bad not even my dad can be there with her?

Bad thoughts. Bad thoughts. Nothing I can do. Can't help her, can't reach her, can't make anything better. I can sit here and stew in it, my stomach churning, or I can zone out in front of mindless TV, conveniently not dealing with the reality that she's dying. Some choice. I can't make the right one.

I feel like my life is falling apart. All the most important things. It hurts so badly. So badly that I am so at a loss of how to deal that I'm doing this. Writing attention-seeking desperate cries like this even though I know nobody can do anything. I hate drawing attention to my inability to deal, I hate being an object of other people's pity.

But I concede. I'm laid low. Enough, universe. Enough.
breakinglight11: (Crawling Dromio)
Doing regular things. Submitted my first homework packet today. Chores around the house. Ballet and sewing class. Hard to focus when I feel this bad. But I'm tough enough at least to go through the motions. To not screw up the running of my life too much.

Writing. For school, for myself. Did some of my best work during the lowest periods of my life. Alice was written during a time of extreme blackness, though that time was nothing compared to this. It's tough to marshal my brain-- becoming a television addict because it distracts me from the bad thoughts --but I need to use this pain constructively somehow. I think I've got something. If I can just make myself work through this.

For God's sake, make something of it.
breakinglight11: (Ponderous Fool)
Yesterday, [livejournal.com profile] niobien commented on the piece from day two that it was rather dark. I confess I hadn't really thought about it until she mentioned it, but yeah, it really is. So is piece number one from the day before. And, surprisingly or unsurprisingly, so is my piece for today. I am drawn to tragedy; I suppose I really am a goth in my soul. But it's funny that I wouldn't even notice the trend until Carolyn said something.

This piece is about a wealthy older gentleman who is found sitting up at night by his faithful butler, who has been in his employ for years. The idea for it came to me as I was trying to fall asleep last night, fretting about what the hell I was going to write about today. I scribbled a few notes in the dark in a notebook before I passed out so I wouldn't forget it in the morning. As with all of these I am posting them in rough, unedited, first-draft form, but I think this one has serious ten-minute play potential. The conflict may need to be upped, the point of view of the butler may need to be strengthened, but I think there are the bones of a solid ten-minute play here that I could fix up and submit to competitions and stuff.

brandysnifter

Day #3 - "Service is its Own Reward" )
breakinglight11: (Ponderous Fool)
I called my mom on my walk yesterday. I mentioned to her that I think of Gigi's stillbirth as I go through the cemetery, and mom corrected me on a few parts of the story. She too couldn't say whether the baby never had a name or if simply no one used it, but Mom said that she didn't come between my dad and my uncle in the birth order; she was before all of them. Her, and all the miscarriages. And there weren't two or three, Mom said. She had nine of them.

Nine miscarriages. And then a stillbirth on top of that. Can you imagine? Can you imagine becoming pregnant and losing it ten times? And then to keep going with your life, no breaking down, and keeping on trying to have children even though every sign pointed to just bringing yourself more pain? My melancholic self can't even imagine the kind of fortitude it would take to keep hope.

My mother said when she was pregnant she thought to herself, look at all the people around you. They all had to be born sometime. If this many made it into the world okay, then yours probably will too, and you'll come out of it okay as well. There's always something like that to draw hope from. And in the end, Gigi did go on to have three healthy babies. They never would have been if she'd given up. And in the end, even Mom's baby, born sick, got well.

Something to remember the next time I feel like I can't keep hope.
breakinglight11: (wraith)
I've taken to walking through Mt. Feake Cemetery when I want to get into town. Since moving to Illyria an extra mile was tacked onto all my normal walking routes, and while the effort isn't tough for me, it makes a walk take significantly more time out of my day. I like cemeteries. They're a tiny glimpse of history. They're great for a writer trying to gather names. (Apparently there are a lot of "Blaisdells" who died in Waltham.) It's actually a lovely place, carefully arranged and beautifully maintained, full of big expensive-looking cookie cutter headstones. It's got nice trees and healthy green grass and a great view of the river with the picturesque old watch factory on the opposite bank. I don't know how even people who don't like cemeteries could find this place unpleasant. Of course I like old weird rundown ones too. And I really like sort of run-of-the-mill working class ones that are neither too nice nor too bad. My great-grandparents on the Roberts side are buried in a place like that, where all the headstones in the Catholic section of the yard are the flat kind that are easier to mow around, and cheaper than the ones in the Protestant section. It's a piece of my family's history-- Catholic, working class, Burgettstown, the names Frank and Christina Roberts --and a small tangible piece of relatives I've never met.

Whenever I'm in a graveyard I always find myself thinking of the baby my Gigi, my paternal grandmother, lost a few years after my dad was born. In the eight years between having my dad and my uncle, my Gigi had several miscarriages and one stillborn baby girl. I'm not sure I'm remembering this correctly, but I believe Gigi fell down some stairs at some point during the pregnancy and the baby was born dead. She's buried somewhere in that same cemetery as my great-grandparents, but at the time Gigi and Granddad couldn't afford a headstone, and so without a marker in the intervening years no one remembers where she lies. 

I've never heard anybody call her by a name. This didn't seem strange to me; I don't really believe stillbirths are people, so I don't approve of giving them names. I've seen too many instances of people personifying their lost babies in unhealthy and unrealistic ways. I always assumed Gigi's lost baby never had one. But I've heard enough people have expressed shock to me upon hearing that that I wonder if maybe she did, and it's just that no one uses it. Difficult enough to lose a baby, perhaps even if worse if you turn her into a person too. I don't think it's anything superstitious or even hung-up; I think my family is just inclined to not dwell on old tragedies, nor to investing personhood in someone who never was. But if that's so, I feel a strange connection between the name never being mentioned and the lack of a headstone. No setting down of the name, no speaking of the name hereafter.

In my larp The Stand there is a headstone to a stillborn baby girl in the graveyard, the child-that-never-was of the sheriff Malcolm Royce. I was thinking of Gigi's lost baby when I included it. I decided that the stone in the game would read Baby Girl Royce. I did not want them to have named her, and what else could you put on a tombstone for a child that never lived before it died?

It was a long time ago. Gigi has since passed away. Granddad is around ninety now. My dad and his older sister and younger brother all have children of their own. My uncle's oldest daughter is about to have her own baby. And my family is full of resilient people. Sickness, loss, struggle, death, may be mourned but are eventually taken in stride with the knowledge that there is always hardship in this life. Not even Granddad and Gigi were really scarred by this. But still, somewhere there is a baby with no name buried fifty years ago who died without ever having a chance to live. We don't remember where. The people who knew have forgotten, and they are beginning to pass away themselves. I'll never know. But she existed. She had people wanted to know and love the person she would have been. People who cried that she was dead.

And she has a niece who thinks about her. Who has made art from the thought of her. Who remember that she existed.

I don't really have a point to this. I don't have anything I learned or concluded from this. I still don't think she should have had a name. And I don't think it's a big deal that she doesn't have a headstone. But I still think she mattered, if only for this.
breakinglight11: (Puck 4)
Thoughts have been very dark lately. Not healthy, trying to shake it off. I have entirely too much work to lose focus to that. Spent an hour last night on the bathroom floor with those dark thoughts. Not for the first time, it occurs to me that I am a prideful thing. Makes me do some pretty awful things, just for the sake of my self-conceit. And yet at the same time, when I find myself wanting to do the wrong thing, often my pride reminds me how ashamed I would be if I did the wrong thing, bringing me back to the right path after all. I am blackly amused by the fact that the very thing that's killing my soul is also keeping it alive.

No matter. Must write. Much write until my brain liquifies itself and seeps out my ears. Merely Players is due in one week. I want to have it done in time for people to read before auditions. It's no small challenge to keep it witty and smooth. It's coming fairly well, I guess, but I'm starting to get stalled, which I can't afford. It is my first priority until it's done, after which I can focus entirely on The Stand and Resonance.
breakinglight11: (Cavalier Fool)
On Sunday, August 29th, [livejournal.com profile] acousticshadow2 is running her newly written gothic larp, Nepenthe a Surcease of Sorrow, and still needs two more male players. It looks to be a very dark, twisted game with some very mature themes-- I know that the character I got in it is easily the most intense I've ever had. Jared and I will both be in it, so you'd have the chance to play with us. :-) The game will be happening in Worcester, so if you're coming from my area, we still have one or two seats left in our car and I'd be happy to give you a ride. Contact Emillybeth if you're interested, or drop me a line and I will put you in touch with her. Hope you can come out to play in this first run of a new gothic game!
breakinglight11: (Easy Fool)
I just noticed that Alice filled at Festival! Huzzah! We were missing one player for, like, two weeks. You don't know how pleased and proud I am by the fact that it's a large game that has had four previous runs, and it still fucking fills.

Mike Hyde gets the award for most entertaining casting questionnaires. I am also amused by how many questionnaires list that they would prefer not to have plots involving a specific despicable thing, like rape or psychological torture, but then follow up with something along the lines of "But you probably don't have anything like that in this game." Heh. To give you an idea of the nature of the story, I began my writing process by making a list of all the horrible things I could think of to see what among them I could turn into plots.  ALICE IS THE GAME OF HORRIBLE THINGS.

I have also agreed to help run LXHS with [livejournal.com profile] captainecchi and [livejournal.com profile] electric_d_monk, about which I'm very excited. I loved playing that game and am very happy to help them. There are still a a handful of spots left for gentleman or those ladies willing to play as gentleman, so if you haven't already, I suggest you check out this excellent game!

*shaking*

Jul. 3rd, 2009 07:31 pm
breakinglight11: (Joker Phoebe)
Angry.

So, so angry.

Knots

Jun. 23rd, 2009 03:32 am
breakinglight11: (Tired Fool)

Not sleeping well lately, as you may have gathered by the fact that I'm posting at quarter to 4AM. Very unlike me, as I usually crash at midnight. I'm not sure if all the Snapple I've been pounding has caused such a spike in my caffiene levels, or if my stomach ache is getting to be too much.

I'm stressed lately. Moreso than I had been, now. I have sad feelings over some stuff I've recently had to deal with that has made things significantly worse. The trouble is, these new bad feelings are not reasonable; they are not over anything I have any right to be bothered by. I acknowledge that, I recognize that. I'm quite disgusted with myself that I've gotten to this point at all; I cannot accept such selfishness in myself. But still, I feel bad. I worry that the only way to feel better is to do something selfish, and otherwise my stomach stays in knots.

I'm going to do the right thing. I have to; I couldn't live with myself otherwise. It's better to hurt.

Yuck

Jun. 6th, 2009 05:53 am
breakinglight11: (Joker Phoebe)

I have remarkable ability to disgust myself sometimes.

*sigh*

Nov. 13th, 2008 10:16 pm
breakinglight11: (Default)
I don't know when my life got so complicated.

Heh

Jul. 30th, 2008 11:44 am
breakinglight11: (Joker Phoebe 2)
I'm a terrible person, but perhaps I'm a bit better than I give myself credit for.

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