Atonement

“How can a novelist achieve atonement when, with her absolute power of deciding outcomes, she is also God?” — Ian McEwan, Atonement

I think I am afflicted with a particular form of writer’s block. It is not for lack of ideas or first sentences or intriguing conclusions. Rather, it is an almost paralyzing fear that I will get it wrong, that my recollections lie, or that what goes on the computer screen characterizes the people in my life unfairly. The quote above is posted to my Facebook, where it’ll remain until I finish my thousand-something piece on the past year of my life. Don’t hold your breath.

I keep bringing up the last chapter of Atonement during interviews, during conversations with friends who want to know why I haven’t made more progress with my book proposal, even during therapy. I don’t think I can sum it up more brilliantly than McEwan, whose novel about a novelist (how very meta) is as much a story of an aspiring writer as it is a critique of writers. He recognizes that we are very much playing god, and I for one am uncomfortable with the power. I don’t know what to do. Fiction is not my forte but the responsibility of memoir is too difficult to bear. When all is said and done, I don’t want there to be anything I have to atone for.

Aidan told me recently to just write, to let whatever the result speak for itself rather than worry so much about how everyone else comes out looking. After all, I was a party to the events I’m writing of, so who is to say that my interpretation is more or less accurate? Still, I find myself compelled to ask my friends and my men about the precise going-ons and emotions that transpired a year ago. I want to get it right. I want to get them right. Even more important than events themselves are the individuals but there is no criteria for accuracy there.