In Search of Bones

Writers always talk about “finding their voice.” I know what that means, or what it must feel like, to find one’s voice – but I don’t think I’ve done it. I think “my voice” is much younger than the one I’m writing from. Maybe it’s really young. Maybe I should be writing children’s stories. Maybe my voice isn’t even human – maybe it’s a bird’s voice – or a dog’s.

I often think of the made-up “Fetch stories” that I told my youngest daughter before bedtime for many years. Fetch was a golden retriever beanie baby who loved lamb bones. I don’t remember how he came to love lamb bones, but it was crucial to his persona – and to the stories. Fetch eventually infiltrated the daytime hours as well, especially during dinner time, and most especially if roasting lamb wafted upstairs.

If someone had been recording the spontaneous Fetch stories all those years – if only – if only I’d had someone to follow me around the way I followed everyone else around to clean and pick up after them – if someone had followed me around that same way to write down the simple dilemmas of a dog whose sole ambition in life was to procure and enjoy lamb bones. . .

Let’s see if I can retrieve some of those characters -- Lucy Goosey, the brassy Christmas goose who wanted to marry Fetch (she cooked up some lovely lamb bone soup) – but Fetch didn’t want to marry her. Then there was Knuckles, the self-righteous pig who marched around carrying a sign that read, No Lamb Bones! His protests disturbed Fetch and made him feel bad about who he was. The Baba Yaga was a cackling witch who threatened to put Fetch in the washing machine. "But my beans will swell!," Fetch yelled. Fetch’s dad came around for occasional advice and protection, but mostly he was a device by which Fetch was read the nightly stories which he savored: “The Case of the Missing Lamb Bone,” “The Mystery of the Lost Lamb Bone,” “The Hidden Lamb Bone,” and “In Search of Lamb Bone Treasure.” I’m sure there were more – and similarly named. There was no mom to speak of – I guess she was cleaning.

. . . If only I’d had the foresight to spend 10 minutes a day writing down those stories, the many tales spun from the primary plot of a gentle, golden dog who loved lamb bones. Could one even publish a book like that today? The vegans would protest just like the pig that carried the foreboding sign, No Lamb Bones!

Frank McCourt said in an interview that he “found his voice” one afternoon when he was babysitting his 4-year-old granddaughter. As he watched her play contentedly on the floor, he “heard” what was to be the first paragraph of "Angela’s Ashes." He went home and began to write from the voice of a 4-year-old boy. He invested 30 years of “writing starts” before finding that moment.

Willa Cather said she found her voice after her failed first novel about a man who loved two women. She dejectedly took a train ride back to her family’s farm in Nebraska. She “heard” the 9-year-old child peeking out from the cracks of a covered wagon. That’s who wrote O Pioneers! and My Antonia – a nine year old.

A.A. Milne’s wife brought home a small stuffed bear from a London department store to give to their son, Christopher Robin. It was this voice, “a bear of very little brain,” who spoke up for A.A. Milne. This example comes to mind because I hear that a sequel to the Pooh books came out last week. It’s called “Return to the Hundred Acre Wood” – and the author is not Milne or his relative. It makes me want to buy a nice hardback (with dj) edition of the original Pooh books.

It would be nice if finding one’s voice were as magical as stumbling over lamb bone treasure. But I have to remind myself that Fetch never stumbled – he spent his entire life in search of the missing lamb bone!