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My story is called The Yellow House loosely, and I mean loosely, based upon a visit I made to Sweden in 2014. I keep a mental and physical notebook of story ideas—often very random, never knowing how I might tie something together to make a narrative, a beginning, middle, and end. All writers, unless they are liars, must confess that real life speaks into their writing life. So I hope the real life people, my friends, don’t think this story is about them.
After reading Rachel Cusk’s novel Second Place, I was inspired to attempt something similar. I’d seen her name on many feminist reading lists. This particular work did not seem feminist, not even remotely. I wouldn’t even say it was a lady’s book. But the brilliance of the novel was that it kept the reader guessing, I kept thinking something was going to happen, perhaps a murder or falling out, something to reward the reader for reading to the last page. But nothing. Nothing ever really happened. I saw the purpose in this. A kind of bait and switch, or just baiting. In the end people disappoint us, we’re disappointing, the narrative is quotidian. Yup, I wanted to emulate this.
And remembered visiting my old college roommate in Sweden, using her yellow house as a stand in for my character to also visit and make assumptions and also discover the underlying problems with her own life and marriage. To admit to mistakes. I knew I needed some kind of ending, so I added a love story—of sorts. The kind that makes sense for this character, someone she can rescue.
If interested, tune in for the rest of the story. I’ve provided
you with the background or the impetus for writing it.
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