I have to get out of my own head.
There are two of us in here: Lyra and me.
When I write I have to remind myself I’m writing Lyra’s story, not my own. It’s not me who experienced a devastating terrorist attack, who lost her whole family, who discovered she has super cells. It’s Lyra, so I have to move aside and give her room because she needs her own voice.
It’s hard, though, because I’m still in here. And sometimes I want Lyra to think like me. And I want her to do what I’d do and say what I’d say. I want her to be my mouthpiece.
But alas, Lyra often resists. She’s her own person.
Here’s an except of where I think I did well to capture Lyra’s voice. (Lyra and David have just been rescued from their kidnappers. David seemed to be on the verge of death, but is recovering.)
And you?” David asks. He coughs again and Lyra grabs the cup of water, lifts it to his mouth and helps him drink. When he rests his head, he continues. “You are on life number 10? 12? 100? There is no end for you.”
Lyra knows he teases but still she imagines herself as an old, tottering spinster still hanging on even as the world she recognizes disintegrates. No longer is there anyone alive who knew her as a young girl; no longer is there anyone alive who knows her now. In her old age, old beyond all expectation, she is alone.
“There is no end,” she agrees softly.
David senses the shift in mood. “Are you ok?” He turns serious, the intensity of his one good, open eye burning into her.
“Of course,” she says brightly. “Not even a scar.”
“Scars do not have to be physical,” David reminds her gently.
How does he do that? How does he know her?
Lyra shrugs, but says nothing. She’s good at that, saying nothing about how she feels.
David, however, is not Jonah. He won’t accept her silence. “Tell me,” he urges.
Lyra perches on the edge of the bed, David’s warm hand brushing up against hers. She searches for a way to explain how she feels it and David waits quietly, patiently.
Finally, she speaks. “You know how a snake sheds its skin? Well, I am the opposite. I’ve kept my skin but shed myself. I may look the same, but inside I am now a different person.”
Here’s where I got in the way (Lyra and her new Muslim friend Ayaan are discussing the modest dress of women in the Second World):
Lyra digests this reason, and on the surface she can appreciate what Ayaan says, but she is nagged by a whiff of sexism in it. Why must women cover up to stop men from behaving boorishly? Why is it not the men’s responsibility to keep their thoughts pure—or at least to themselves? It reminds her of a battle her school had last year over dress codes. The principal insisted that girls could not wear tops that showed their bra straps nor bottoms that were shorter than the tips of your fingertips if your arms were straight by your side. It is inappropriate, he claimed, but a girl, Caitlin Xu, a senior, challenged him. Why, she demanded, was it inappropriate? He asserted that boys would be too easily distracted by the sight of so much female skin, a response that was—rightfully, in Lyra’s opinion—roundly criticized for its stuffy, outdated morals. When Caitlin shot back that she was not responsible for sexualizing her body, that if boys were distracted then it was their problem, the principal had no retort and the dress code was amended.
“There is an assumption that all men are lewd?” Lyra asks.
This is me preaching. Maybe Lyra shares my views, but she wouldn’t dwell on it here, not even during a conversation about modest dress. She has bigger problems. Like trying to kill the bad guy who is responsible for killing her family so she can save the First World from more religious attacks. Can’t say that’s on my to-do list today.
Which means I need to defer to Lyra. She knows best.
So I’m going to just shut up now.
Well, I’ll try to shut up now.
That’s why I have this blog, for my own voice, so I can have my say, so Lyra and I don’t have to constantly compete for space on the page.
Ok, shutting up now…
(Really).