Memory and Letting Go

And an update on the new book <3

Hi Everyone!

Wow. So. I finally finished the first draft of my next novel last month. Yay!!!

The last few weeks were particularly rough. When I began this book, my mother was ill, but still alive. However, as I wrote through the book, her conditioned deteriorated, and as I noted earlier, she passed away late last year.

I have heard from others who have lost parents that one is forever changed—my own experience matches this. My mother—whom I argued with, laughed with, cooked with, laughed with…who kept giving me dishcloths she crocheted and blankets she had embroidered… Who made the best Hawaiian spareribs and apricot pickles ever.

I went to a Japanese market just last week, and saw her favorite peanut butter mochi (a newfangled thing she and the other old ladies had gone gaga over)—and I realized I couldn’t call her to ask if she wanted some.

All of that is gone.

And there was so much to her that I did not know, that I will never know… Also gone.

I have lost my grandparents and cousins and aunties and friends. But, as much as I loved them, I never felt vested in knowing who they were… My mother—I knew so much about her. I mean, she’s my mother. And now to see all she was—who she was—come to a stop.

**

Yes, we say that after we die, we live in the memories of our loved ones. But what of the parts of us that are not remembered? Our secrets? Our trivialities? What was my mother like before she was my mother? Before she met my father?

We are so many things to so many people. What remains is only a small fraction of that. And from that fraction, people will choose what to remember and hold dear. The rest?

It’s gone—not through any other failure or limitation than being mortal and imperfect.

The funny thing is—this isn’t sad sad. It’s just…sad in a quiet soft way. My mother came into this world as a human and leaves that way as do we all.

Over the last few weeks, I have realized that the process of my mourning (this is only my process—everyone mourns as everyone does) has been eased by realizing that what cannot be saved cannot be saved. My mother’s essence will fade unevenly—to some memories I share with my sister, some pictures and messages on my phone…a recipe for spareribs—an old dishcloth I might keep in a Ziploc unused.

But everything else? It will all be gone.

For me, it has been best then, to cry, to say thank you, and to say goodbye. How to say goodbye in the most loving and healing and respectful way possible—that’s what I am trying to do now, even as I light a stick of incense and pray.

**

Back to my book.

When I wrote this book, so much was about saving people. Not just my mother, but others I had lost. And it is important to save people—wherever they may be in their journey. Even when people die, I still believe it is right and good to save what can be saved.

But I realize that I cannot save everything. And that is not failure. People will be forgotten. Places and times will be forgotten.

In losing my mother, I am learning that what matters just as much as what we remember is the recognition that we also forget. That, no matter how close we were to our loved ones—they surpassed our abilities to encompass and describe.

And doesn’t that make knowing them at all even more amazing?

We can fight forgetting, deny forgetting…try to encase our memories in cedar boxes and cluttered cabinets. Or, we can remember what we remember and to everything else, cede to time.

**

As I completed this book, I realized that it was not so much about saving as it was saying goodbye. About recognizing how the stories and dreams and secrets and prayers of my characters come from people I know and knew.

About how no matter how beloved these characters are, and how much supposed power I may have as a writer—sometimes it is best to say goodbye.

Because they deserve it. Because my readers deserve it. Because those beautiful people whom I have loved were infinite and unknowable and thank the universe we even caught some of their shine.

And yes, there is sadness… But sadness without blame or stress. And in realizing what I was doing—saying goodbye—I realized how much love and dignity and wonder and gratitude those words and thought might contain.

The last month before the book was due was a frenzy of rethinking, re-positioning, as I moved from the strength of saving to the wisdom of letting go. I think I rewrote two years’ worth of work. The shift was not drastic—but the shift was as rewarding as it was difficult.

I would think of my mother… All the months and weeks in the hospital, in the ICU. Coming home with more medicine, more equipment… I would think of all the questions I wanted to ask her, but that there was not enough time.

And at some point—I accepted it. Because there would never be enough time.

Because we have no choice but to love and live and go on.

**

It was just my birthday last week. One year is over, and another begins. The new manuscript is with Lindsey right now. I have no idea what she is going to say (don’t get me started on perilous harrowing things my insecurities can imagine!).

Then, from wherever we are, we are going to work super hard to rearrange and edit and revise and polish this book and make it as nice and shiny as possible for you. I will be writing about the process of editing from time-to-time I promise.

And if everything works well, you’ll have a book that’s a little different than anything I’ve written before. And I will be super excited to bring it to you.

I can’t tell you what the title is just yet (though I have a working title that I really like). However, I’ll probably share a bit more about it here and there (no spoilers, of course), as we move along.

But I will give you one bit of information.

I will be dedicating it to my mother.

Because, well, she was pretty amazing, you know?

Love,
Ryka