The smell of the place was a combination of old and new- of old pews, dry paper hymnals and Lysol cleaner. The flowers overflowing at the altar sent off a sickly sweet smell that cloyed in my nose and stifled my senses. I didn’t like it. People slowly flowed into the church, first passing by the large poster board filled with pictures, memories snagged from the passage of time and given credence to a life well lived.
Family congregated in a back corner, not a smiling face among them and at the tender age of seven years old, I wasn’t sure what my response should be. A smile seemed inappropriate, but tears weren’t clogging the back of my throat. It hadn’t hit me yet with the speed of an empty freight train- sure to come later. I tugged on Daddy’s arm, trying to get his attention.
“What hon?”
“Daddy, I want to kiss Papa goodbye.”
His eyes softened and he put a hand on my shoulder, a hint of moisture wetting the corners. He cleared his throat. “You bet you can. We’ll do it after the service.”
The front pew was so close to the casket covered in the pink and white flowers. The smell was overpowering. I hated the scent- unidentifiable it left only a bad taste on my tongue. They were not symbols of beauty, but vestiges bearing the memory of loss.
The service closed, the moment had come. Apprehension churned in my stomach. What would it be like? My hands turned sweaty in Daddy’s grip and my heart thumped in my ears as he guided me through the departing throng and to the casket. I couldn’t see in. The dark oak of the wood gleamed under the lights. I knew Papa wasn’t really in that box. His body yes, but Heaven had gained a wonderful man.
Jesus, please tell him how much I love him.
Daddy lifted me up and I got my first peek into the casket. He lay so still. Never again to be the first at the screen door to greet me. Never to kiss my cheek with his gristly gray mustache. Never to feel his loving arms around me. I leaned down and planted a kiss on his forehead.
So cold. So waxy. It wasn’t how I wanted to remember Papa. The scent of the tight space about me filled my nose with a strange scent, one I couldn’t place and would always hate.
My loss, Heaven’s gain, but now years down the road, I would not trade that kiss, that moment of goodbye for all the world.
Years down the road I found out what that smell was- the flowers about his casket. What I had always thought to be something from the funeral home to prepare his body for burial, was really the scent of the flower chosen to grace his casket. From that day to this I cannot smell those flowers without thinking of Papa’s funeral. And I can’t stand them.
Emotions fill our lives. Grief, joy, anger, the entire gauntlet. When we sit down and give our characters the emotions they crave, where do we draw from for those realistic emotions?
From our own experiences.
I am sure most of you know this already, but it is hard to look back on such moments and drain those feelings and put them onto the page. Our characters will live them and though it isn’t often the same experience, we have to remember all over again. It is often a trialing journey down that emotional memory lane.
Writing that about the funeral of my grandfather is one of the hardest things I have written, though granted it has gotten easier with time. But to relive those emotions all over again is difficult to say the least. I was nearly crying as I wrote this.
You won’t realize the depth of your emotion until you start writing. During a class once I wrote this same thing, only not in as great a detail. I was sobbing from the core of my soul and couldn’t finish reading it aloud. It was embarrassing in a room of complete strangers to not be able to cease sobbing, but the writer in me knows that such a moment is golden.
The same isn’t just for grief, but also anger or extreme joy. Brandilyn Collins says in her book,
Getting Into Character that you don’t have to be a murderer to think like one. (and this is certainly an
extreme case). She gives the example of as you sit down to read a good book, a fly begins to buzz. You shoo it away. It persists, darting against the glass of your window and distracting you from the thoroughly enthralling world of fiction. Annoyance burns in your gut which grows to upset and from upset to pure revenge as you hunt out the fly swatter and attack the innocent fly. It lies in a pile of broken wings and black body. Satisfied you are return to your book…only to again hear the buzz, bitz, bitz of the cousin of the fly you just assassinated.
Emotions aren’t something to be feared or shied away from. They add the emotional layer to the story that every book needs to give it impact and a way to connect with your readers on a visceral level. You have to relive them to pull from them. Which is why writing is like “sitting down to the computer and slicing open a vein”.
It is frightening to put ourself on the page. We are taking something near and dear and asking someone to judge it. But your reader will have the most impact from it. They will feel as if the book was written directly to them- because though they might not have lived through that same event, emotions are universal and everyone has experienced grief, anger, fear, love, joy. It is the author’s job to advocate on the part of the reader and let them relive those emotions. Your book will have more power for it.
Have you read a book recently that had gut emotional impact?
