Scene Revision: Liz vs. Mom
Jul52010
Okay, I rewrote the Liz/ML scene and I think it’s where I want it for now. So here’s the scene that comes before it, Liz and Mom. And then I’ll stop. There’s a limit to how much you can exploit your readers with bad drafts. Oh, and for those of you who missed the opening scene a couple of months ago, the bear Liz is lugging is about five foot tall. And purple.
At five-thirty, Molly took me home, stopping her minvan in front of my mother’s little gray ranch house, three doors down from my aunt ML’s split level. As I got out, I saw Mom had a new mailbox, a bear lying on its stomach, its mouth hinged so it could eat the mail.
“Adorable,” I said.
“It could be worse,” Molly said. “She could collect Hummels.”
She carried my two suitcases up the walk while I lugged the bear and my laptop bag behind her, and when we were still a good six feet away, the door opened, and there was my mother, her hair in a carefully combed, side-parted, bottle-blonde bob; her pretty round face immaculate in Estee Lauder; and her powder blue sweatshirt appliqued with a blank-eyed teddy bear.
Mom smiled at Molly and gave me the guilt-eye. “Took you long enough,” she said to me, opening the screen door. “I got maybe twenty calls telling me you were in town. Thank you, Molly.”
“My pleasure, Aunt MB,” Molly said, and dropped the suitcases on the porch. “Gotta go.”
“The police chief and Kitty,” I said to my mother as Molly ran like the rat she was. “Two people, tops, called you.”
She sniffed. “You been here since noon.”
“Since two. The car broke down and I had lunch while I waited for the verdict from the Porters. And then I worked for awhile.” Annoyed that I’d explained that much, I shoved two hundred bucks worth of purple plush guilt at her. “Here you go. A new bear!”
She grabbed it so it didn’t knock her over. “Purple,” she said through the fur.
“Yes.”
“Huh.”
She backed out of the doorway, clutching the bear to her bosom, bending backward under its bulk, and I thought about saying “Did you notice how fucking big it is?” and then decided that would be acting like I cared whether she liked it or not.
I picked up my suitcases and the laptop bag, opened the screen door with my foot, went in, and stopped just inside.
Turns out if you don’t go home for fifteen years, there are changes.
“This is new,” I said, looking at the teddy bears that sat on every surface including most of the floor. I knew she had a lot of them, hell, I’d bought some of them, but I’d had no idea of the vastness of her obsession, the sea of shoe-button eyes and violently colored plush that she moved in. There were so many, you couldn’t see just one, the idea of “bear” washed over you and drowned you.
“Yeah, I painted,” she said, looking around. “Just got tired of that green.”
“I meant the bears,” I said, although now that she mentioned it, the room was blue, in between the bears.
“My collection.”
She went around the room divider that was a blond wood bookcase with one of those fifties abstract open shelf things on top that meant I couldn’t run in the house when I was little because the vibration might knock off some of her milk glass that used to be up there. Now it was full of bears.
“So, bears,” I said, following her into the kitchen where she was putting the kettle on to boil.
“I got six hundred and ninety-two.” She looked back at me. “Course a lot of them are little.” She looked at the giant purple bear she’d sat on one of the kitchen chairs. “Six hundred and ninety-three.”
Everywhere I looked were beady little eyes set in furry little heads, their glassy stares reminding me of the last party I’d gone to in LA.
“So you’ll be staying awhile since you’re gonna be in the wedding,” she went on, getting down two tea cups. “That’s good, that’s a social coup.”
She pronounced it “coop,” but that was because she got most of her vocab from reading instead of talking with people who would use the word “coup.”
“I’m not in it. Molly tried to get me a job taking care of the guest book, and Lavender said no, which is good because I have to be in Chicago tomorrow.”
“The guest book’s important,” Mom said, lighting a cigarette. “Tells you who actually showed up. And the way I hear tell, your car’s not going anywhere for a week.”
“Chicago, tomorrow. So what are you wearing to the wedding?”
Mom snorted. “Like they’d invite me. Hell, Faye wouldn’t invite Kitty if she wasn’t mother of the groom.”
She leaned against the kitchen counter, cigarette in her left hand, her right hand supporting her elbow, watching me with bleak eyes while she talked, the chatter just a smokescreen, and I gave in. “I’m sorry I didn’t come home right away.”
Mom shrugged. “I’ve been waiting for fifteen years, what’s another four hours?”
I clamped down on my temper. “Three and a half hours. And it’s not like we haven’t seen each other. I’ve sent you a plane ticket every Christmas for the past ten years. We’ve had turkey in some very nice places.”
“It’s not home.”
Since that was the point, I didn’t say anything.
“Well, I know you’re busy being an important writer and all.”
“I’m a ghostwriter, Mom. Important isn’t even in the picture. I’m useful.”
“And there’s nothing wrong with that.” The kettle whistled and she turned around to move it off the burner. “I just missed you, that’s all.”
Oh, hell. I got up and went over and said, “I’m sorry, Mom,” because that was the easiest thing to do, and she turned around and there were tears in her eyes, and then I did feel like hell.
“I just miss you,” she said, and I put my arms around her and patted her on the back while she sobbed into my Happy Bunny T-shirt.
The truth was, she didn’t miss me, she missed the idea of me, some phantom ideal daughter. If she spent too much time with me, reality came back and screwed up her fantasies, and then she took it out on me. I figured I had about another thirty minutes before the hits started coming, so I said, “Well, I’m home now, and I’ve brought you one big-ass bear.”
She nodded, her face still buried in my chest, and then she pulled back and sniffed, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, and flicked the ash on her cigarette into the sink. “We’ll have a good long talk.”
“Wonderful,” I said. “But Molly and I have plans for tonight.” Her face started to crumple again so I said, “But I want to have lunch with you tomorrow before I leave. The Red Box. My treat. That’ll be fun.” At least I’d get to eat great food again.
She sighed and looked up at me. “You gonna go out with Molly with your hair like that?”
“Yes, Mom.” I go everywhere with my hair like this.
“It’s too long,” she said. “For your age.”
“Thanks. I like it.”
“You’re no spring chicken.”
“I’m thirty-three.”
“I know. I was there when you were born.” She turned to get the tea bags and drop them into the cups. “Thirty-three.” She shook her head. “Past time to get married. I suppose you heard it’s Cash Porter who’s marrying Lavender.”
“It came up.”
She poured the hot water into the cups, handed me one, and took her cup and cigarette over to the dinette and sat down. “That was a surprise.”
“That a Blue would stoop that low?” I said, grateful to be talking about anything that wasn’t my shortcomings and especially my lack of husband.
“That Cash would ask her,” Mom said. “He must have gone crazy. It’s his Jesus Year, so he was bound to do something, but . . .” She tapped her cigarette on the edge of her saucer. “. . . not Lavender. She’s a handful. Snotty. The Porters are pretty upset.”
“Jesus Year?”
Mom nodded. “He turned thirty-three. He’s a Christian. Jesus was thirty-three when he was crucified. Christians, they do something big when they turn thirty-three. They can’t help it. It’s like subconscious or something.”
I waited for her to go on, but she just took another drag on her cigarette. “Mom, I’m thirty-three.”
“Well, yeah.” She squinted at me. “Huh. Maybe since you were never much of one for church, it’ll miss you.”
“I didn’t like Reverend Bitters.”
“Nobody liked Reverend Bitters, but we still went. That’s what Christians do.”
“So because I cut church—”
“It’s probably not in your subconscious,” Mom said. “Cash, he was in church every Sunday.”
No, he wasn’t, I wanted to say. He was cutting a lot of those Sundays with me, but that would just bring the conversation back to me. “So for his Jesus Year he’s marrying Lavender Blue?”
“Everybody goes to hell in his own way, Lizzie,” Mom said, and there she had me because everybody does. “So I guess the Porters are probably hoping having you back will make Cash come to his senses.” She surveyed me. “You’re gonna need make-up.”
“No, I’m not. Look, is it all right if I stay in my old bedroom tonight? If not, I can bunk with Molly, but—”
“Of course,” Mom said. “Just move the bears off your bed.”
I had a bad feeling about that, but I got up to get my suitcases.
“You didn’t drink your tea,” Mom said.
I hadn’t wanted any, but had she asked? No. “I’m letting it cool.”
Mom nodded. “Well, I’m real glad you’re back. Lots to talk about. I hear you met Vince.”
Vince. It took me a minute since her segue was kind of abrupt, but then I remembered: the cop. “Yes.”
“He’s a nice guy. Might be good for you.”
“Good for me?” Then I got it. “I’m leaving tomorrow, so no, I will not be marrying Vince.”
Mom sniffed again. “Might want to think about it. He’s deep. There’s a story there.”
“Everybody has a story, Mom. That’s how I make my living.”
“That’s how you make your living up to now. Now it’s your Jesus year. Everything changes. Maybe it’s time to come home and settle down. A cop in the family would be good.”
“Mom–”
“You know, you went to Sunday School every Sunday until you were thirteen. That probably gave you enough religion.” She nodded. “You wait, it’ll be the same for you. Things are going to change.”
“I’m an atheist,” I said and went to clear the bears off my bed.
To my credit, I made it through the next hour without screaming while we made dinner (tomato soup and grilled cheese, “Your favorite,” my mother said; “When I was eight,” I didn’t say) and did the dishes, even though my mother kept on talking about my make-up (lack of), my clothes (still jeans and T-shirts), my job (racketing around the country instead of getting married and reproducing), my romantic history (“You could have had Cash Porter if you hadn’t left, might want to take another look at Vince”), and my general personality (poorly dressed, stubborn, and absent).
She still hadn’t said boo about the damn bear, either.
“I gotta go see Molly,” I told her at six-thirty when she started in on my hair again, heading for the door in clean jeans and my “Graduation is for Quitters” T-shirt that Molly had given me after I’d left town.
“It’s cold out there,” my mother yelled, so I backtracked and grabbed my Wonderfalls hoodie, ignoring for the moment that it said, “I Surrender to Destiny.” My destiny was not in Birney, and if it was, I was sure as hell going to fight to the death.
“I’ll wait up for you,” Mom called after me as I went out the door, and I remembered what it was like to feel both annoyed and guilty with a side order of repressed anger, which pretty much summed up the first eighteen years of my life.
Thomas Wolfe was wrong; you can go home again. I just don’t know why anybody would want to.
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63 Comments to 'Scene Revision: Liz vs. Mom'
On July 5, 2010 at 7:55 am SnarkMaiden said...
maybe instead of announcing that her mom will switch to complaining she could remark on it once it happens? would it feel stronger that way or do you want Liz making it worse with her own anticipation of conflict?
On July 5, 2010 at 9:36 am Jenny said...
I think Liz’s assumptions of what will happen color her perception of what does happen. She’s working on prior assumptions with both Mom and ML, and they both fulfill those assumptions, but Liz misses how they’ve changed because she just assumes they’re the same people they were fifteen years ago. They were the adults in her life then, so they were background noise. Now she’s an adult and she’s going to have to look at them as peers, as people separate from her, not “my mother” and “my aunt.” Because she’s going to miss some important stuff.
Also, if you’ve ever gone back to a place you hated, you brace yourself beforehand, you don’t comment afterward.
On July 5, 2010 at 9:37 am kyrathered said...
It’s good but it isn’t … tight and snappy, like a “real Crusie” scene. I felt that I knew more about Molly’s childhood when I read about the bookcase/glasses thing, but it broke the flow. I’d rather have slightly less information and more flow. I cannot wait to read these books! I am already engrossed :0)
On July 5, 2010 at 9:38 am June said...
I really enjoyed this draft. Often when I read scenes like this, I just end up disliking one or both characters. The guilt of the child seems fake and automatic. Somehow This works for me. They both come off as sympathetic and even appealing. Even the bears seem over the top, but in a realistic way. Thanks for sharing it.
On July 5, 2010 at 11:08 am robena grant said...
I feel sorry for the Mom. She really has a problem. So the bears compensate for the absence of her daughter. Sad. Sad. Sad. You mentioned somewhere that she’s drinking again? That would make sense, every time she goes on a bender she buys another bear because she misses her family.
So what can Liz do to help her mother through this? Can she help the woman join a church group of AA, or go and volunteer somewhere, begin to fill her life with something other than the dreams of what she once had? Liz needs to step back and look at the big picture of what is wrong with mother, and stop bitching about getting out of Birney. You can tell I’m old, I’m connecting with Mama. Hah.
On July 5, 2010 at 11:26 am kyrathered said...
I think you are right.
On July 5, 2010 at 9:35 pm Jenny said...
Kyra, this ended up in the spam filter. I have no idea why. It doesn’t look spammy.
On July 6, 2010 at 6:15 pm CrankyOtter said...
I didn’t get that. Maybe I didn’t read hard enough, but if your daughter living elsewhere caused one to hoard bears… my parents would be out of room. I didn’t go home for 5 years because of the cat allergy being increasingly intolerable – had to wait for the cat to die at age 22 (22!!).
Most kids do not live at home. In America, many don’t live in their hometown. You can’t put the bears/drinking/malfunction on Liz and Liz alone. What a horrible thing to do to a kid. Even a 33 yr old kid. There has to be something else going on. Even if Liz still lived at home that thing would still be wrong, to my way of thinking.
Go figure, I identify with the 30 something who hasn’t lived within 1500 miles of the ‘rents since I was 17. Except for that 5 month experiment that nearly killed all of us. My brother can live with them an co-exist. Not so much for me. I really can’t have sympathy for someone if their sole complaint is that their adult child lives elsewhere and visits (to whichever place) once a year. It’s been my reality, and my parents reality with their folks, for 2 generations.
On July 7, 2010 at 10:49 pm Kelly S said...
At 40, I’m with CrankyOtter. I visit my folks once a year – Christmas or Thanksgiving depending on odd or even year. (At the in-laws during the opposite) Now they visit me about 4 times a year and I call weekly. I know they’d love to hear from me daily or at least more frequently and I get nagged oh so subtly about visiting, “so any chance we’ll see you hear before the holidays” “what are your vacation plans” – 3 weekends in a row, same answer each time (none). I pray my parents will hold their own until they die as I’d likely kill them if they tried to move in with me.
On July 5, 2010 at 11:31 am Merry said...
I have this awful feeling the bears are going to fix their beady little eyes on Liz and then rise up and attack her like evil little minions.
It’s true that this whole story doesn’t have the style of a ‘traditional’ Crusie. It’s not just the 1st person, the whole tone is different. Not in a bad way, not at all. Liz’s voice reminds me a bit of Archie Goodwin narrating the Nero Wolfe stories.
On July 5, 2010 at 12:25 pm Jenny said...
I LOVE Archie Goodwin. I tried a mystery story once in that vein and couldn’t do it, so if this has that vibe, I’m thrilled. Thank you!
On July 7, 2010 at 10:49 pm Kelly S said...
I think the beady eyed bears attacking comes as a left over from Wild Ride.
On July 7, 2010 at 11:31 pm Jenny said...
In my defense, my mother did once collect teddy bears, so that’s where it comes from. She never had anywhere near 600, although her bedroom was pretty full. Also, she’s not nuts. The bears in Wild Ride were bears because that’s what they gave as prizes at the Whack-A-Mole. I know they have other stuff as prized, but we already had a lot of detail there and we wanted to simple things up as much as possible.
On July 5, 2010 at 11:52 am Sharon said...
I focused on the mother as well and felt great sympathy for her. You describe her as pretty, well groomed and tragic. This woman REALLY cares about her daughter and is so eager to see her that she resents the 4 hours that Liz was not at the house. The bear phobia is SAD -I noticed the absence of a dog-usually a Crusie tradmark. Liz just comes off as immature-sniping at her mother inwardly, dressing like a 5 year old and wanting to go play wth her friends. She pushes that bear at her Mom and then gets miffed when her Mom doesn’t fall all over her in gratitude. If Liz is really 33 then she needs to look around and see what her Mom REALLY needs from her-and it is not another bear.
On July 5, 2010 at 12:29 pm Jenny said...
Oh, there’s a dog.
It’s interesting to see who’s on Team Liz and who’s on Team Mom and why. Liz is acting like she’s eighteen, not thirty-three; that’s what happens when you go back to see your parents a lot of times, you revert. On the other hand, Mom is acting like Liz is eighteen, too; you do not get to criticize another adult’s appearance just because you gave birth to that adult. So they both need to readjust to see each other as people and not “Mom” and “Daughter.” Fortunately, they have time because novels are long.
On July 7, 2010 at 10:52 pm Kelly S said...
Wow! I so didn’t get that. Totally thought the Mom was overbearing and ridiculous in her expectations. Who waits up for a 33 year old woman. Jenny makes excellent points – both in the regression around parents (yep, I do it) and that parents should let their kids grow up which the mom hasn’t done.
On July 5, 2010 at 12:44 pm KellyJ said...
It’s a complex scene. I identify with Liz because my mom is a lot like MB, she even went through a bear collection phase, which was disturbing. If MB is truly a negative, difficult, guilt-throwing person, then I don’t blame Liz for wanting to stay away. At the same time, I would feel guilty for not visiting my mom for 15 years… so they both come off as real characters to me. I like Liz, and want to see her stand up to her mom and hopefully they can find a way to get along. Is there hope for this kind of relationship?
On July 5, 2010 at 1:00 pm marly said...
Team Liz – for now. If you spend the first eighteen years of your life in such an unhappy place that you leave the first chance you get and stay away as long as you can, I don’t think you’re going to look around and ask what you can do for anyone else when you first return. You’re eighteen again. Just standing there trying to have a normal conversation when you feel you have a stone weighting down on your chest is a big deal. Running away screaming would be a lot more appealing. It was a heroic effort and the scene and dialogue showed just how difficult that was for Liz. That doesn’t mean she’ll never be able to empathize or try to help her mother. I can feel that’s coming. The dialogue alone in this scene tells me so much about what Liz’s life was like in Birney. Staying away for fifteen years? I get it. Coming home for a day? First survive and then escape.
On July 5, 2010 at 1:17 pm Carol said...
No, please, exploit us! We don’t mind. Really!
I liked lot of things about this scene – Liz’s reaction to the mailbox, six hundred and ninety-three bears, the dialogue between Liz and her Mom, the Jesus Year, destiny and fighting to the death.
I liked the room divider and milk glass comment, but I felt the sentence was a little awkward. Sigh. I know, I’m picky. Sorry.
I didn’t feel much sympathy for her Mom. In my opinion, that kind of constant criticizing is a form of abuse. But if her Mom is self-centered and oblivious to Liz’s feelings, Liz is also oblivious to her mother’s feelings. She doesn’t believe her mother really misses her and didn’t notice at all that her mother at least wanted to fix a dinner Liz would enjoy, even if she was wrong about Liz’s favorite foods.
Speaking as a parent, I have to say I feel very strongly that parents have to live their own lives and not live through their children. Liz deserves to live the life SHE wants and should not be made to feel guilty by her mother or anyone else that she does not want to give up her own life to be her mother’s crutch.
On July 5, 2010 at 1:30 pm Diane Krause said...
Jenny — I haven’t been keeping up with the scenes you’ve posted; this is the first one I’ve read. It’s a little creepy — minus the bears and the blonde hair, have you been hanging around with my mother???? I might need a therapy session, just from reading this scene.
On July 5, 2010 at 3:21 pm Caroline said...
‘I go everywhere with my hair like this.’
That sentence completely encapsulates my relationship with my own always elegant, unfeasibly glamorous mother. She has been to the hairdresser at least once a week for the whole of her adult life and, at 79, is never seen in public without full maquillage.
Brilliant.
On July 5, 2010 at 4:11 pm Kieran said...
I really like these characters. Complex. Real. Fascinating.
On July 5, 2010 at 4:21 pm Joanna said...
I cannot wait. I was having a no-good, terrible, awful, really bad day so I pulled Agnes off the shelf. Instant lift. Thanks, Jenny!
On July 5, 2010 at 4:43 pm Jenny said...
Oh, good, I love Agnes. Thank you!
On July 8, 2010 at 11:39 pm Joanna said...
Jenny, I work in a used book store (it really helps to support my habit) and I recommend your books to absolutely everyone who walks in, male or female. I usually start them off with WTT or Agnes even though my personal favorites are (usually) Bet Me and Fast Women. And I lurk on your blog all the time. I can’t seem to get enough Crusie!
On July 9, 2010 at 12:20 am Jenny said...
Thank you, Joanna, and all the other booksellers here. Believe me, authors know how important you are.
On July 5, 2010 at 4:19 pm SusanK said...
It’s wonderful dialogue and nails a certain kind of interaction between mother and daughter.
Don’t think Liz has a goal for the scene – she’s turns up on her Mom’s doorstep and reacts to her. Her mom seems to have the agenda for the scene.
Thought her goal could be ‘stay the night’ but that’s a bit muddled in the scene. She arrived with her luggage and carried it in, but it’s most of the way through the scene before she asks if she can stay there for the night. I would have thought it would be a given that she would stay there – her mother struck me as the sort who would be horrified if her daughter came to town and didn’t stay with her. Also thought it would be more interesting if her bed is the only surface that isn’t covered in bears.
Noticed that Liz falls into old patterns of guilt and appeasement:
Guilt
Gift
Guilt
Apology
Guilt
Promise of lunch
Thought that like the message on the hoodie, Liz was to an extent surrendering. But I liked it. She loves her mother and is gentle with her. She could have let rip, like she does with her aunt later, but that wouldn’t be appropriate here – I get that she loves her mother and like a lot of women it twists you up inside.
Maybe she lets rip on ML because she has had to be so restrained with her mother. She is going to have to learn how to deal with her mother without going to war with her, like she does with ML.
On July 5, 2010 at 4:36 pm Jenny said...
There are bears on the bed, under the bed, everywhere.
Nice anaylsis on guilt and appeasement, too, I hadn’t seen that. Thank you!
On July 5, 2010 at 4:31 pm SusanK said...
Meant to say that I loved the ‘Jesus Year’! Does that really exist in Ohio?? I’m not from here – I emigrated at 33! – so I was just fascinated by the concept of a Jesus Year.
On July 5, 2010 at 4:43 pm Jenny said...
I didn’t make it up, but I have no idea where it came from. There is also an Elvis year (42), which is when you’re supposed to hit your peak in popularity. So I’m screwed. The Jesus Year is supposed to be the year that you get your act together and do something big and important. For my Jesus Year, I started grad school, broke off a bad relationship, and got cancer. For my Elvis year, I quit my steady teaching job and got published. Thank God no icons did anything big after 60; I don’t think I could survive another (Insert name here) Year.
On July 5, 2010 at 8:12 pm SusanK said...
An Elvis year? I don’t know why I’m so delighted at the thought! It’s like discovering the gift toy in your cereal – all along there was a Jesus Year and an Elvis Year and I was oblivious to ‘em!
BTW, astrologically, when you turn 60, it’s your second Saturn return. But if your first one was awful enough (at 30) then the Universe gives you a free pass on the second one. If not, it takes a 50 lb mallet to your life. Or so I’ve heard… I think you’re entitled to a free pass.
And something I was wondering about: it was the word’ adorable’ that did it – it made me think of teddy bears and Uncle Day. Has Liz’s mom started to remark on Uncle Day being like a teddy bear? Is that ML’s motivation – her sister wants to collect her husband?
I can’t wait to read this – almost wish you’d e-publish it so we don’t have to wait a year for it to reach the stores.
On July 5, 2010 at 9:16 pm Jenny said...
My second Saturn return is almost over and they were both really bad. So no free pass here. But I’m through it. YAY.
Liz’s mom would never say Day was like a teddy bear. Doesn’t mean she doesn’t think that, of course.
On July 6, 2010 at 12:55 am SusanK said...
Liz Greene has a great book on Saturn if you haven’t seen it yet – at least consoles you with the thought you have company while the Cosmos wields that chainsaw! Liz’s mom might think Day looks like a teddy bear? Is that a clue? Aargh. If we could just see you, we could venture wild theories and watch to see if you twitch etc. Sigh. I know we’re lucky to have seen the bits we have seen.
On July 7, 2010 at 10:57 pm Kelly S said...
The cancer is what I zoned in on. I’m assuming that is all gone and over with?
On July 7, 2010 at 11:32 pm Jenny said...
Oh, that was thirty years ago. Technically I’m in remission, but I’m feeling fairly secure.
On July 8, 2010 at 7:27 pm Kelly S said...
Happy to hear it!
On July 5, 2010 at 5:14 pm Kira said...
You know that optical illusion of the old woman / young lady? That’s how I feel when I read this scene – one moment I identify with Liz (I dress pretty much the same as I did when I was 18 and no, my mother is not happy about it), and the next moment I identify with the mother (I have an 18 yo old son who’s about to leave home, and G-d help him if he refuses to come home on a regular basis). So I’m torn.
Very real scene, I enjoyed it very much.
Oh, and Liz’ goal is very clear: survive the evening without saying something that would really hurt her mom. (Which is why it might be meaningful for her to accidentally lose control with ML)
I grew up reading The Three Musketeers, and to me 19 was d’Artagnan year.
On July 5, 2010 at 5:24 pm juneb said...
I’m remembering through the mist of time-I graduated in ’67-to a college philosophy class in existentialism and an awareness that is supposed to come at age 33. At that age you should realize that 1.you are mortal, 2.nature is not benign, and one other thing I never can remember. Might be Sartre, might be Kirkegaard. I can’t remember that either.
On July 5, 2010 at 5:41 pm Mary Stella said...
She backed out of the doorway, clutching the bear to her bosom, bending backward under its bulk, and I thought about saying “Did you notice how fucking big it is?” and then decided that would be acting like I cared whether she liked it or not.
I feel like I’m about to critique a queen and am suddenly nervous about giving my feedback.
Maybe because I’d read the Liz-ML scene before, I was prepared to be very sympathetic to Liz in this scene. That bit above lost me. I had a serious negative reaction to Liz. If she doesn’t like the bear collection, then she shouldn’t add to it. If she’s bringing her mother a bear out of guilt or to attempt to do something nice, then bring her a nice one and not an oversized purple one that she’s then going to internally mock her about. Bringing her mother a gift and not caring if she likes it? What’s that about?
I guess I need to read more than this excerpts because I don’t know that I’m getting the clearest picture of Liz. I understand that her early years were horrid, but there has to be something positive left over from her connection to her mother or she wouldn’t have flown her out for Christmas or come back now.
Oh, about mothers not getting to criticize what their 33 year old daughters wear or look like, I’m sorry but that made me laugh. I don’t think there’s an age limit on mothers, or grandmothers for that matter, commenting on the next generation. Even loving parents do it. My mother, God rest her soul, was as sweet and loving a person as ever walked this planet. We had a great relationship. That doesn’t mean she ever accepted that I liked to wear bright nail polish. Mom was a mauve or tan on her nails woman all of the way. Granted, she phrased her objections very gently, but they were definitely objections.
On July 5, 2010 at 9:14 pm Jenny said...
Oh they DO it. That doesn’t mean they have the right to. My daughter’s 34 and I’d never ask her about her hair. It’s her head, she’s an adult, she gets to do what she wants. I think if a parent respects her (or his) adult child, she accepts her as an adult and doesn’t try to infantilize her. It’s a hot button with me, of course. My high school gave me an award for being a famous graduate, and my mother said, “Jennifer, I’m so proud of you. Are you going to wear your hair like that?” Praise followed by criticism is not praise, it’s a power play and anybody who tries it deserves the distance it creates. So I’m okay with Liz’s distance from her mother. And obviously she does care what her mother thinks or she wouldn’t have brought her the biggest bear she’d ever seen and then said, “Really, I don’t care what she thinks.” That’s a defense mechanism, lying to herself. I’ll give you that she doesn’t understand her mother at all, that’s pretty clear, but this is the first act of the novel, they have to have somewhere to go.
It really goes back to the unlikable heroine, I think. Liz gave up on people liking her a long time ago and opted for distance and honesty. So I think if you have a heroine who says what she thinks and never tells a lie, she’s not necessarily going to be likable. The key is to make her so interesting that readers don’t care. Which is my problem now.
On July 5, 2010 at 8:39 pm Deb Z. said...
I missed the earlier chapter so I may be stating the obvious or questioning things that were already explained. Like so many relationships, its what’s not being said that speaks volumes. Mom is using old standards (e.g., grilled cheese and tomato soup, waiting up), to fill in for the fact that she doesn’t really know her daughter or how to interact with her. Liz refrains from speaking her real thoughts and is polite out of guilt, keeping her mother from really knowing her. I’m not sure where that guilt stems from. Is it just that she never comes home? Maybe Mom is symbolic of Birney and Liz doesn’t want to be there, or Liz got to leave which is what her mother wished she had done (instead of being doors away from the snarky aunt). Aside from sharing the same body some 33 years ago and probable polite Christmas visits, they don’t seem to have a clue about each other. I sense that they’ll need to figure that out (and find out there are similarities neither saw or wanted to acknowledge), in order to evolve, be happy and/or move on.
On July 5, 2010 at 9:21 pm Jenny said...
I think a lot of mothers hold onto what their children were to keep them children, and that’s where the cheese and tomato soup comes in. But I also think the tension between mothers and their grown daughters leads to them both reverting to the sure thing. It isn’t so much that MariBeth wants Liz to be a little kid again as it is that she wants to make sure she’s giving her something she likes. The fact that that makes Liz a little kid again is kind of a bonus.
On July 5, 2010 at 9:33 pm marly said...
I forgot to mention “Reverend Bitters”. It’s such a great name.
On July 5, 2010 at 11:40 pm Merry said...
Totally great name.
Is his full name Angus Torah Bitters?
On July 5, 2010 at 11:47 pm Jenny said...
Nice, but no. Trust me, he was no joke.
On July 6, 2010 at 12:20 am Sierra said...
I liked the scene, but am still processing and thinking. The biggest thing that jumped out at me was this sentence –
While giving the reader an insight into the mother, it feels awkward and out of place. You get the same sense of isolation from the multitude of bears. Or maybe I’m just being too picky.
On July 6, 2010 at 12:26 am Sierra said...
I realized why it felt out of place. It broke the flow for me. Maybe you can work that in in a different manner? Because I do like the mental image of her pronouncing it like that.
On July 6, 2010 at 11:57 pm Micki said...
I loved that bit; I *am* that woman (-:. Insight into MB’s character, and also, the love Liz really feels for her mom (because she’s defending the word choice).
On July 6, 2010 at 12:36 am pennyoz said...
Jenny I love your writing. In fact I came to it cos I was told I am very similar to you. I’d lobbed in from a different genre – children – so … it’s nice to interact with you. I married and left the continent at 20. For me life stood still as far as home was concerned. I longed for it. Missed it. Used it as my bench mark for most of my life and, when I came back expected it to be as I remembered it. But what happened to me was to change me while they stayed the same. I grew but none of them did. So in actual fact when I did get back, I really didn’t like them (and I don’t think they liked me). I was a ‘furriner’. A wog. I didn’t understand. I didn’t even have the right accent any more. And the wedge has never really changed. Too much water under the bridge. I’m a different animal. They aren’t. Sad I suppose, but gladdening too. When I was little I had a sailor hat. It had “Life is just a bowl of cherries” on it. Well it isn’t.
So you know where my head is I’m having a love affair with Mr. Big, Carrie Bradshaw and the television series of Sex and the City. I adore Meg Ryan, she can be my leading lady, just has to email me, Sleepless in Seattle (sigh). And accidentally discovered comedy and Regency and me work like well fitting gloves.
Your piece is lovely and funny. I’m on Liz’ side. Guess that makes me a Lizzite.
On July 6, 2010 at 12:36 pm Clever Cherry aka Judy Long said...
People don’t like Liz? I love Liz. And having had a mother who criticized me every moment of the 18 years I let her, I don’t have a lot of sympathy for her mother. If you want her to stay around, come around, be around, CHANGE. Change into someone who doesn’t criticized everything about her.
I’m 52 and I live with my mom now. She’s 72. I’ve been living with her since I moved here to help her take care of my dad (now dead) in 2003. She’s still very critical but she has learned to hold some things back and I’m no longer afraid to call her on it.
On July 6, 2010 at 1:13 pm Victoria said...
Wow. That’s a good bit of realism right there. Fully 3-D, full back story. Very very vivid. Excellent writing all around.
My problem is that I don’t like either Liz or her Mom. Liz is bitchy and resentful; her mother is a whiny bully. Both are selfish and self-centered. The fact that they talk past each other bothers me. Yes, it’s realistic. I’ve seen this very same thing happen in real life. It bothers me there, too.
However, I don’t see Liz as a Cruise heroine. If Liz is there because she got a “your mother is going crazy” letter from ML, I expect to see Liz do more than just glance around at the bears and tamely follow her mom into the kitchen while reverting to her 18 year old self without a fight. I don’t want to see a re-hash-for-the-umpteenth time of why she left home to never return, I want to see Liz act on why she came back. I don’t see any info gathering.
To me, a Crusie heroine is self-aware and in control of what she can control. I really, really like that, too. I see no self-awareness in Liz. I also see no self-control. That’s why I don’t like her.
I kept expecting to see something that isn’t an angry 18-year-old. (Surely the buying her mother tickets to join her counts toward the magical “See Ma? I’m an adult now!” attitude.) An angry adult not willing to put up with “you’re-my-baby-and-I-will-guilt-trip-you” is what I expected.
On July 6, 2010 at 1:15 pm Bonnie C said...
Count me on Team Liz. I moved back in with my folks for a year in my late 20s and it is a real struggle to redefine that parent/child relationship – although for me it was more with my dad than my mom.
My mom had the Liz/MB relationship with her mother, but my grandma was more like ML. I say kudos to Liz for sucking it up and playing it safe with her mom in this scene. They’ll need a come to Jesus scene later, but this isn’t the time for that. Also, if the ML scene is directly after this, then Liz’s blow up at ML is totally in character. There are things you don’t say, or try not to say to the woman who gave you birth – everyone else is fair game.
I really like that when she walks in the house is not a time capsule where nothing has changed. The change is smacking her in the face and maybe lending a little credence to ML’s letter. What I can’t wait for is to find out *why* the bears. Is it really MB’s obsession or was it a cute collectible that spiraled out of control? Does she really hate the bears but feels she can’t say anything because they were mostly gifts? My mom went through a cow phase and I finally had to stand in front of her and tell everyone ENOUGH ALREADY WITH THE COWS, because she didn’t feel comfortable doing it herself.
I can’t wait to get my greedy hands on these books.
On July 6, 2010 at 1:53 pm Kate G said...
Okay this is odd, I know but here is the sentence that stopped me:
“Turns out if you don’t go home for fifteen years, there are changes.”
The “there are changes” doesn’t flow for me. Strange how one sentence can stand out. I know how I’d say it – but I’m not Liz. No one else had a problem with it so it is probably only me.
On July 6, 2010 at 2:18 pm stephanie said...
I’m enjoying being inside Liz’s head and having a new perspective. It’s different. There are new things we’ll see and hear and I think it’ll be a fun ride. Thanks.
On July 6, 2010 at 2:29 pm Cheri said...
She carried my two suitcases up the walk while I lugged the bear and my laptop bag; when we were still a good six feet away the door opened, and there was my mother…
She led the way with my two suitcases while I lugged the bear and my laptop bag, and when we were still a good six feet away, the door opened. There was my mother…
She carried my two suitcases up the walk; behind her, I lugged the bear and my laptop. When we were still a good six feet away the door opened and there was my mother…
Just messing around with possibilities for something that felt a little awkward to me. But what do I know?
On July 6, 2010 at 3:50 pm robena grant said...
I like both Liz and Mama. But then, I don’t think there’s been a Crusie character ever that I don’t like. I just hope Mama gets some help. : )
I don’t blame Liz at all for being jaded about family. If she’s been criticized all her life of course she would be, or she’d be a doormat and would never have left home in the first place. I have a thirty year old daughter and believe me I’d never tell her how to dress or wear her hair. We shared a hotel room a couple of weeks ago, first time in a long time, and at breakfast she was really grumpy.
“So, what’s with the snoring?” she finally asked.
“Oh, that. Sorry.”
“Yeah, I was going to throw something at you–”
“Why didn’t you? Anyway, if you hadn’t fed me all of that red wine last night–”
“Yeah.” Snort. “Like I held your head to the trough.”
Love that girl.
On July 6, 2010 at 4:57 pm Jenny said...
Liz is supposed to be flawed so she has room to grow (over at least four books). But if she’s so flawed you don’t like her, that’s a problem.
I don’t want Liz to be understanding, but she can’t be a bitch (at least not as a permanent part of her character. But she’s also not under any compulsion to be a Crusie heroine, since they pretty much come in all flavors.
So I don’t know.
On July 6, 2010 at 6:13 pm Polly said...
I think the problem, for me, is that the picture of her mother that Liz is describing is incredibly pathetic, and Liz doesn’t seem all that aware of the pathos. She’s so busy feeling angry and guilty and proud of herself for not ripping into her mother, that she doesn’t seem to note how sad the whole thing is. Maybe that’s your intention–to create some dramatic irony with the reader seeing this pathetic mother figure and Liz still stuck in guilt and anger–but the first person POV makes it difficult for me to accept that Liz sees this and doesn’t pick up on it. So when she notes all this and then just mocks, it feels cruel. Being home might make her revert to 18, but she’s still a 33 year old reverting to 18, not an 18 year old being 18. I know you’re saying you don’t want her to be understanding at this point, but can’t she be mature enough to pick up on the sadness, even if she doesn’t know what to do with it, or how to process it in conjunction with her anger and guilt? To me, that would explain in part why she’s running so hard–it’s just so much easier not to deal with it if she’s not there, and to forget the conflicting parts if they’re not in her face all the time. It’s a lot easier to be angry and guilty without throwing compassion into the mix.
On July 6, 2010 at 6:28 pm Jenny said...
Yes, but sadness is also a way to manipulate guilt. She does respond when her mother cries, but she also knows it’s not going to last, that her mother’s going to start in on her hair again. In the first scene, Liz says she hates the idea of coming home because of her mother’s “I’ll just sit here alone in the dark” approach to life and this is the example of it. The truth is that Liz cannot make her mother happy and she knows it. No matter what she does, she’s still going to be Liz and her mother’s still going to carp at her. I think Liz giving into that kind of emotional blackmail wouldn’t just be weak, it’d be out of character.
On July 6, 2010 at 7:05 pm Polly said...
Ok, so I just looked over it again, and all the parts that you’re mentioning are not the parts where I had a problem. Where the mom says things that are essentially, “my life is screwy because you’re [fill in the blank]” and Liz refuses to play that game–that’s all fine. And there, it would be a character violation for Liz to give in. I think it really is just the very beginning, where she’s mocking the guilt bear she’s giving and commenting on her mother’s pronunciation of coup (which fits, and is such an evocative description, but added to the context of the bears, is somehow inexpressibly tragic to me). I end up seeing this whole interaction through this tragic lens, and that’s not really fair to Liz, but I’m only noticing that as I’m taking the piece apart to read it against your comments. And you’re right, the mom is being really manipulative, but I was reading it as sad, then manipulative, rather than in conjunction or manipulative via sad. Given what you’ve just said, though, it might not need to be fixed; if Liz has already commented on her mom’s general approach to life, then that framing might be enough intro to this so that I as the reader don’t primarily note Liz’s actually very few mocking comments, but rather the heavy guilting that her mom is doing. Coming to this cold, or even backwards (since we already had the scene with the aunt) might be part of why I read it as I did–and of course I’m sure most of us are reading this through the haze of our own mother-daughter issues, so it might just be my stuff.
On an unrelated note, is the mom proud of her teddy bear collection? I can’t tell if she actually likes them, or is just committed to them. I was kind of expecting her to be a little more excited about the gigantic purple bear. Or, if she’s not, for Liz to notice that she doesn’t seem to be all that excited about the gigantic purple bear. And would a five foot tall bear really balance on a kitchen chair? I’d think the size of the base would require it to be on the floor (not really important, but my sister had a four foot tall stuffed horse when she was little, and it was the unwieldiest thing imaginable).
On July 6, 2010 at 6:53 pm Mariah said...
I didn’t get the mother throwing Vince at the daughter. I married young, but I still can’t imagine my mother (who is much like Liz’s mother, sans bears) telling me to marry someone I spent 3 minutes talking to earlier in the day. Well, not unless he was independently wealthy. Then she totally would (and did, before I was married). Male and single wouldn’t be quite enough.
What I got from the bears is this: Liz’s mother doesn’t like them. I suspect what happened to her happened to a mother of a friend of mine. She bought some cute cat sculptures for a shelf. A family member noticed them, and bought her some more. A friend noticed those and it just snow balled. She was knee deep in cat figurines and doesn’t have the heart to tell everyone to just quite it! It feels to me like a similar thing happened to Liz’s mom, but she uses them as a mask to hide behind now, in a “all you people who bought me bears for every celebration possible didn’t see me so now you won’t see me” sort of way. So the big bear says to her, “my daughter has no idea of who I really am”. I hope by book 4 she gets out from under the shadow of her sister’s house, gets rid of all the bears, comes out of hiding, and LIVES. But this might be because my own mom won’t. A little false hope would be good for me.
On July 7, 2010 at 12:08 am Micki said...
What I picked up from the bears is that Liz is buying a bear that she hopes will impress her mom, but she doesn’t actually take the time and do the research to know what bear will *please* her mom. This is a strong Crusie theme, I think. In Bet Me, the jerk buys Min “a snow globe” — which doesn’t fit the collection. Oh, and somewhere (book? blog?), Jenny talks about how a guy buys a bouquet of flowers, and expects sex and handstands . . . whereas for the woman, it’s just a token gesture. If he really *got* her, he’d bring (gerbera daisies?) a specific sort of flower that has meaning for them or for her or even just for him. (Was this Cinderella Deal? I’ve only read the book once so far, so I might be wrong.) Liz doesn’t have a clue about the bear thing; she’s just presenting a token of her affection, not her real affection.
Anyway, I like Liz; I like her mom too (but I hate Mary Lou! probably in the way I should hate Mary Lou). I’m assuming that this is the beginning, and there’s going to be growth here.
On July 7, 2010 at 7:57 am AB said...
I really liked the scene, I thought the interaction between Liz and her mum felt really realistic. The paragraph where Liz notes that her mum just misses the idea of her rang true to me as well. With the bears it felt to me like her mum was proud of the collection, but that the one Liz brought didn’t fit for some reason (she doesn’t like purple? Or doesn’t like non-traditional coloured bears?) and was symptamatic of Liz not understanding. Her having the bear mail box leans towards this as well, I would have thought.
I was going to ask a totally tangential question about the Wonderfalls hoodie, but don’t want to hijack, so shall wander back to Lucy’s place…