A few months ago, I was lamenting to Blondage about how I'd like to write about my mom, but I sure don't know how to make a bitter, petty, miserable person a protagonist. I've been utterly blocked by this fact for years. So Blondage suggested I read Jeannette Walls' The Glass Castle.
It's non-fiction, thank god, 'cause if someone made this melodrama up, you'd feel manipulated. Walls was raised by two parents who are clearly mentally ill and ultimately, once she's an adult, defiant homeless people. It immediately became apparent why Blondage recommended the book. The story is chronological, and we view the parents through Walls' age at the time. So when she's five, she doesn't know her parents are nuts. They're her parents. They're therefore brilliant and infallible. As Walls aged, she slowly unraveled the truth, and so too does her narrator. As chapters pass, the narrator grows older, and her perspective on her parents sharpens into ugly reality.
Brilliant device.
"What did you think?" Blondage asked. "Was it helpful?"
I shared with her the analysis I just shared with you. And then I sadly shook my head. "The problem is, I always thought my mom was a moron. There was no shifting perspective as I got older."
"Oh."
Oh.