A Map is Not the Terrain

A few years ago an obscure literary magazine published one of my short stories. It was about a woman resigned to the fact that she'd never marry. She was determined to have a child all the same. She couldn't afford a fertility clinic, so she had casual sex with several men. She became pregnant, delivered a daughter and was happy for seven years. The daughter fell off a swing and broke her neck. The story was about grief and mourning.

A publishing house saw the story and asked me to expand on it, turn it into a novel. I did, and the novel sold very well. I've even been asked to sell the screen rights. Based on the novel, the media decided I was an expert on a mother's grief. I'm asked for interviews anytime a child's death is reported on the news. I sometimes agree. It's hard to say no.

I'm also contacted by women who have lost children, or by women whose children are fatally ill. I'm asked for advice, for comfort, for emotional support. I'm asked to attend the wakes and funerals of children. I sometimes agree. It's hard to say no.

There is an axiom in the military: the map is not the terrain. It's a representation of the terrain. You can't know the terrain until you've walked it.

I'm not a mother; I have no children. I've never suffered the loss of a child. The closest I've come was the death of a beloved cat when I was in my first year of college. I know nothing about grief; I know nothing about mourning. I made up a story, that's all. I imagined it and wrote it down. I drew a map of grief.

I sometimes give interviews. I sometimes attend wakes and funerals. I drew the map; the least I can do is stand by it. A map is not the terrain, but it might help you avoid getting lost.

posted by greg @ 11:45 AM