Maggie Lawson

TODAY, I AM MAGGIE

Just putting it out there from the get-go…this Maggie pseudonym, supposedly my mask, my chameleon costume, my muse, aka this lurking author, is wondering (in the intangible, the floating outside, observing, third person) if this arbitrarily chosen name will alter my (will the real other Maggie please stand up) honesty. Whew. How well will she verbalize all this to come—since no one knows her as me. Me? I’d stand up, use my own name, but it may be familiar, raising expectations, so, yes, good idea, Marta. Today, tomorrow and Friday, I’m dead to me, replaced. Maggie’s invented, the name I was given by another writer, better known than I, referring to a rollover accident we survived. Hopefully Maggie won’t tell all my secrets, though it would be an opportunity to spill them, and use italics, hyphens, ellipses, !!!!, and the occasional ; in BOLD. Admittedly, I’ve never been good at punctuation, so our Maggie may allow my un-sprung, care-less unedited side to surprise you. I can use her to send you off on an unexpected chatty journey you would not have expected from me. Seriously, you won’t be able to guess who’s behind the scenes—me— incognito. So fun, this hide-and-seek, this alter-ego opp. I’m here; I’m NOT here. I may get to like it! Maggie’s innocence, her nonchalance, may not be so innocent or nonchalant if she reflects me at all. Our “Maggie” may carry on, unrehearsed, just to spite me, spilling myself. Do I already have several personalities? Maybe she’s one finally stepping out and being the other me, the real me? The one not trying to figure it out in therapy. Prepare for pronouns to describe her or me or us or we or “our” (closely related to a possessive pronoun, says the dictionary). I’ve never let go to an actor portraying me, before, though I’ve acted. You’ve seen me! Those times were a blast. Maybe I can allow her to write about things I’ve never dared to expose. I’m already feeling lighter!  Did anyone notice I’m wetting myself laughing at my pathetically running off at the mouth? I realize I feel like I’m floating with Maggie now at the helm.

Gosh, I DO go on…

Who even remembers the actual me, anymore? Who recalls the oh, so familiar funky book jacket covers, photo and bio, the me who used to be a guest on talk shows, who followed a formula I alone invented, like the Hallmark movies, that worked until it didn’t.  We all got bored: You and I, both. Unsure of everything, nowadays, I am now riding the leaking air mattrass/dusty magic carpet of a one or two-shots success

I knew Marta and Fred way before they’d become publicly “authentic”, way back when my writing was hot, hot, hot. Oh, they are real enough folks. That’s what attracted me to them. Nothing fancy here, folks. Their potlucks rocked. They were genuine in the way some of us grew up, like me, back in the days when the air smelled like a bit of sweet hay manure, because in real life, manure isn’t just solid and streaming, piled up by the barn, you know.

On occasion, the cast changing, the surroundings, stable, we, snug in overstuffed couches and chairs by their fire, wrote our exposés together, strangers fed and, knowing no one we shared our shy hunger to write, then read our tales to actual listeners, not like you readers who I rarely meet. Our emotional and verbal spills were encouraged. Was it therapeutic? “How did you really feel about that?” “How did abuse change you?” I reeled from the intimacy. Could I ever tell my terror I felt being chased by a man full of fury, or describe the laughter that suspended my existence like an explosive sneeze or a tell-the-whole-world orgasm?

How does one write authentically? Am I authentic? God. Did I miss the point? I felt I did. I felt awash in being me, whomever she is. My words ran amuck. I’d had no lessons on writing. I’d been lucky, and then I wasn’t.

In their cozy home, there weren’t any grades, just increments of trust and connection. It may have been the first time I realized that my story may have triggered a reader’s memory, side-stepping my intended perspective. Their interpretation wasn’t my business! Did I know back then that there were age-old basic themes for all stories? No. My ego assumed my points made were fresh, unique.

Remember, Ian, the Scottish handyman? I know, now, I made his character flatter than he deserved because I felt if I exposed his emotions, it would give mine away, and it would have, but if less flat I may have released yours. Sorry for that. Other than writing only in declarative sentences, as if I knew stuff and had straightforward opinions, or, presenting as serene, with faux confidence, how else could I protect my fragile ego? How could I better express myself? Stories are how cultures share their values, through examples. That should be natural for me. They can be emotionally expressed, but don’t have to be true to get the point made.

Maggie can reveal I feel unheard and discouraged, when I cannot. Will she be more candid, less complicated by self-promises and expectations?

If I, I mean Maggie, if we write freely here, less constrained by the tedium of my too many years of research and insinuating my selves into others, will you recognize me by my style, my characters? Am I that obvious? Or is this an opportunity for me to reinvent my approach, not ride on my history, my fame, be it short or long-lived.

Do I even remember how to be me—or can I now become me in an anonymous character, unremarkable? Impersonal? I’ve always loved planting less obvious, lesser characters in my stories to round out and celebrate the ordinariness I cherish. What does that even mean? Maggie=Pen Name. I suppose I could have used Penny, or Tom, instead. Too late. Is my femaleness obvious? Could I even be a they?

I’m used to my editors cleaning up after me. So, do I try to write with rawness, now, via Maggie, to help you intuit the aching pull of the moon, and no longer squirm through the formulaic sexy beach scenes? Do I still focus on character development, the twist at the end, the seductive trail of crumbs to get you to desire to read on, and on and on. Is my job still to provide the energy, the cleverness, my truth to the story; Am I still the enticer? Should that “A” (<) in “Am” be capitalized?

If she writes in a loose, chatty, stream-of-consciousness style, will that ID me as a fraud, or shall I have fun attempting to allude, surmise, or distance through Maggie? Yeah! I shall become mysterious. I don’t want you to find me. I’ll change up my locations, characters, genders, era of history, the common grounding mention of the everyday use, let’s say, of mum’s best China, or that our pets eat out of tins, not bins.

Dare Maggie let words fly without restraint or rhyme or punctuation or connection refrain from proofing or editing at all letting them fall, words, letting them entangle? Would they better explain our now (Maggie and my) disjointed, dithering grasp as we try to reinvent the inevitable? Will this part of the assignment relieve us? Would you identify better with our new obviously synaptic word salad than the structure you’re expecting? Do we secretly identify best with those who try to show what it’s like to flounder, or to die, even if we’re in denial? Shall we show what happens when you inhale a crumb? I do know about that. I died—not by choaking, but yeah. Don’t give me that surprised look. Die. Say it out loud. D I E. We all die. Yet, our Maggie is pretend, and like so many good books, she lives because she’s not real and she’s not me, she’s definitely not me. I end. So, stay. Allow us to try to tell you a story that allows an actual end.