Magical Realism
Being a writer of fiction means you must define what kind of fiction you write, selecting what
genre you fit into, so book sellers know where to put you on their shelves, and readers can
check you out – or not – depending on their reading proclivities. One of my main elimination
proclivities is fantasy. As a child I liked stories about real things and real people in the real
world, only with a twist. I liked those real stories to have fantastical elements, like maybe a
talking dog, voice from within the walls, or a vintage doll that talks about where she’s been
(Like Hitty and Her First Hundred Years by Rachel Field, one of my favorites), or dead ancestors
acting like they are part of the conversation. What was important was that these voices were
never explained. They were just part of daily reality. That’s what I liked.
Fast forward into adulthood I often think about the five novels I have written so far and how to
categorize my writing. I call them psychological thrillers. But that’s only part of what they are.
For some reason I have hesitated to call my novels “magical realism,” even though I have
wanted to. So, I started to investigate further by looking up the definition of magical realism:
“Magical realism is a genre of literature that depicts the real world as
having an undercurrent of magic or fantasy. Magical realism is part of
the realism genre of fiction.”
Ok, I think that’s me. While the novel is based in the so-called real world, the magical elements
are introduced, without explanation, intended to be considered normal. As I pursued this
definition, I encountered one element that was important in this genre: It has its origins in Latin
America, and magical realism novels originally grew out of writers representing the
economically oppressed who criticize the exploitation by Western countries, like American
imperialism and colonialization.
Here’s the important part: I never, ever told anyone I did that. You know, watched dead people come alive in my fantasy.
“Oops!” I’m thinking, “Sticky wicket!” I’m considered these days as a white, entitled American
female who is not supposed to culturally appropriate a voice for the oppressed that belongs
only to Latin American writers, or legitimate voices like African American writers. But then, I
came across another point:
“When magical realism made the transition from a word in a book in Europe
to a literary genre in South and Central America, it also made a transition from
a visually responsive genre to politically charged literature.”
Crossroad! Take a risk, or back down now. I decided to take a risk and do what I do when confronted with a conundrum I can’t figure out. I treat the problem like a dream, and I free-
associate letting any memory show up. Like a dream, the memory will lead the way to a decision. Here’s the memory:
When I was 13 years old, going to a new private school, I road my bike 6 miles a day to
school and back home at 3:00 in the afternoon. My mother had died, and my new stepmother
was a problem, so I was never anxious to get home. My older brother had gone away to
boarding school. I had to cross a highway and railroad tracks that took me through a very old,
run-down cemetery. On my way home I would get off my bike and wander around looking at
untended and forgotten tombstones. Most were just plaques pushing up crabgrass. I’d read the
names on the tombstones. Like “Mabel Louise Brown, Beloved Wife and Mother, 1850-1920.”
I’d stare, and soon I would see Mabel. She’d be sitting on her porch in the afternoon looking
out, smiling and shelling peas. Her children are running around having fun. Her husband comes
home and kisses her and waves at the children who run over and climb on him. Mabel laughs
and later they all go in and have supper together. One big happy family!
Here’s the important part: I never, ever told anyone I did that. You know, watched dead people come alive in my fantasy. I was 13 and wanted to fit in, which I didn’t because I wasn’t a rich kid, albiet going to a rich kids’ private school. I did not own a cashmere sweater! And I don’t believe I ever really remembered doing that – looking at old weedy graves imagining the wormy
bones alive and well.
So, how does this memory help me now?
Rather than compartmentalizing what we can or cannot be, or write about, why can’t we share
our experiences? It’s called empathy. It helps to heal the divides we construct to keep us away
from each other. As an author, I eschew preachy. But I invite sharing experiences.
So, I write about unlikely allies coming together under everyday circumstances that use the
spirit world as a place where we all connect.