Freedom or a rambling post about what may or may not be a theme to my novels

Eight-ish years ago I was involved in a stage production of Sense and Sensibility.  I auditioned for Elinor, a part to which I related quite a bit at the time with her pretend like you don’t feel anything for the guy you want because he belongs to someone else.  In spite of that connection I felt to the character, I wasn’t cast.  I was offered (probably due to my enthusiasm to get involved in whatever way possible) the maid.  Actually, it wasn’t even technically a part.  It was glorified stage crew.  It ended up more fun than playing one of the Dashwoods because I bonded quite nicely with my fellow servant crew member, laughing ridiculously over silly jokes about curry and our crafted subplot that we would someday make a run for it, charging across the field shouting ‘FREEDOM!’ like a bad Mel Gibson movie.

Anyway it was one of those shows I will always remember... and as a consequence, I still can’t really think of the word freedom without laughing about those backstage antics.  

Truth be told, I never really took that rally cry very seriously anyway.  I did watch that bad Mel Gibson movie before in my Higgins days when there was a whole other series of bad injokes that only someone who had to do arms and armor demonstrations in the mid to late 1990s could possibly understand (puppet shows with tiny horses and weapons or yes, it really does still look like that).  It is curious, though, that I find myself reading about Scotland more nowadays and grasping the context of all that absurdity.

I am reading a lot of time travel (romance) these days.  It started with Outlander… and there is a plethora of copycats.  I really want to have nothing to do with Scotland as a consequence, but I didn’t go very far.  I just hopped the Irish Sea and settled on ancient Celtic magic from Eire instead.  

But before I go on the tangent of the subtle differences between parts of the United Kingdom or the necessary similarities, I’m going to head back to that word.  Freedom.

It lost its meaning long before the long haired blue faced actor shouted it in 1995.  I love history, but it felt like the only history we learned for years in school was the American Revolution.  So it was freedom this and freedom that.  Moreover, we had to learn all those songs where freedom rings in the land of the free.  We even sang them in church.  Freedom.  Schmeedom.

Then of course, I started to learn more about history.  Medieval history.  With feudal systems and serfs.  And the almighty Church.  WWII and the Holocaust.  The horrors (real horrors) of American slavery.  The genocide of the Native Americans.  Suffragettes.  Conditions of the working class – in history and now.  The prison system.

I also had the life lesson of getting an income… and the freedom to pay bills.  To live where I wanted.  To eat what I wanted.  To get up or sleep in to go running because I ate what I wanted.  To leave a job I hated.  To go to another country.  To go on the internet.  To audition for a play or five.  Or none.  To write a book.  To publish a book.  To fail at making something of that book.  To pick myself up and start all over again.

I did start to get the whole freedom thing a bit more.  I appreciated the privilege of my century.  But also the trap whenever I looked at my income going to pay a school loan or a car loan or an oil bill.  For the most part, though, I recognize the fortune of being able to take the word freedom for granted.

Not everyone does of course.  Over the last several years freedom once again became a tiresome word.  With every bit of manufactured outrage from Faux News or some angry white male radio host, it got wearisome to contemplate.  Didn’t they go to school, too?  Maybe they didn’t spend hours studying the feudal system or watching documentaries you can’t unsee about the liberation of concentration camps… but relatively speaking, not being able to eat cookies with a school lunch or buy guns without a background check doesn’t seem like a depravation of choice.

They say though, the thing to make you appreciate something is to lose it.  Luckily, my life remains pretty dull… but I have started contemplating this loss through my writing.

It is extraordinary how a piece of fiction – one that is outside of normal – actually makes me think about this.  I mean really think about this.  Every day.  So that the word isn’t tiresome any more.  (Well, there is still the ridiculousness of Braveheart echoing in my head).  But anyway… let’s take a little tangential detour, shall we?

If you don’t know my writing plan, here’s my writing plan.  

I am writing a series about time travel.  The idea is that you get to the end of one book and (limited, of course, by what is actually written and published) you can decide what book you want to go to next, based on what time you want to visit.  Yes, that is a continuity challenge.  A huge challenge.  It is also a challenge in that I need to write a lot more.  Quickly, too.  We’ll get to that later.  I just need to establish the fact that I am currently in three different worlds for the first three books.  Present day (where there is a lot of world establishing.  It could be rendered the beginning, but in my timey wimey logic, it’s also pretty close to the end – GAH!).  1770s America.  1880s America.  

These time jumps happen (mostly) as a means of escape.  A desire to be free.   I’m still figuring out that part.  But when looking at the details of those decades, it is an interesting comparison of what freedom means.

Especially to a woman.

Freedom to marry.  Freedom to wear one’s hair exposed.  Freedom to go somewhere at night.  Freedom to fall in love with someone.  Freedom to argue.  Freedom to have a belief system.  Freedom to go some place else.  Freedom to have a thought about freedom.  Freedom to desire.  Freedom to pursue desire.  It’s all very interesting to contemplate against the backdrop of a war of independence.  It’s all very interesting to think that the word is so often used… and so often abused.

I guess I could get more into this… but I’d rather put those thoughts towards my character figuring it out.  So maybe I’ll just tempt you with this blog so you will read about her pursuit of freedom in December.

I promise you, she won’t wear blue face paint and shout it across a field.