#CollegeTown: The Unbearable Burden

The following post contains spoilers for my new standalone romance, College Town, which I've placed beneath a cut for safe keeping. If you haven't read the book yet, and don't want to be spoiled, backspace now and come back later. If you're looking for a copy of the book, it's available for Kindle, paperback, Nook, and Kobo.

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Thusly warned, proceed. Breaking my debriefing for Fortunate Son down into smaller, thematic chunks was much more enjoyable and manageable than my usual info dump, so I'm doing that here as well. Ready? Let's go.

There's an exchange that takes place during the Flanagan's scene (the second one, that's essentially a double date) when Tommy asks about what Lawson's currently writing:

“You don’t do high-brow.”

“Thanks, man. Appreciate it.”

“No.” Tommy waves like he’s dispelling smoke. “No, I mean – you write characters. And action. And…”

Lawson tries to snag his mudslide from him and Tommy clutches it to his chest with an affronted noise.

“There’s characters,” Lawson says. “And action…of a sort.”

“Okay, then what’s it about?”

Lawson sighs. “The unbearable burden of being alive. There. Happy?”

Lawson's being a smartass...but only a little. Shortly after this scene, they go back to Lawson's house, his childhood home that remains unchanged as a museum exhibit from their childhood, and I feel like the scenes that unfold here are the beating heart and soul of the book. Lawson helping his dad, as is his nightly routine, but having a long-overdue conversation with him in the process. And Tommy sitting at the table, looking at old photos, and truly coming to understand - not just hear, not just think about, but see firsthand - Lawson's situation. His "unbearable burden of being alive." 

They both get quiet. The album, Lawson knows, starts to thin. Fewer photos in general, and fewer happy ones, specifically. He knows there’s photos of Dad in the hospital, smiling gamely, offering a thumbs up to the camera. Sometimes Mom stands beside his bed, and sometimes Lawson. There’s photos of his homecoming, and some candid shots of Lawson helping his dad, taken by Mom unbeknownst to both of them. From that point on, in the Time After, there’s no more pictures of weddings or parties or Mom’s garden beds. No more cheesy shots of Lawson trying to look too cool for school – there was no school after that, and each time Mom tried to snap his photo on his way to a new job – tending bar, shelving books, folding t-shirts, stocking shelves – he blocked the camera lens with his hand until she finally understood what he was telling her: I’m ashamed. Oh, sweetie, she said, and kissed him, but stopped trying to take his photo.

Lawson stands at the sink, and dries dishes, and he knows exactly why a hush has fallen over the table, only the crinkle of plastic pages turning signaling that Mom is still sharing the album.

When he slots the last plate into the rack, he hears a rustle of fabric, and Tommy say, very softly, “I’m sorry, Lisa.”

Lawson turns around, and sees that Tommy’s put an arm around Mom’s shoulders, and that she’s tipped her head against his, seeking comfort. Tommy rubs her shoulder and she reaches up to pat his hand.

After a moment, Mom lifts her head, and Tommy withdraws his arm, albeit slowly, turning his head to regard her with open concern. “Thank you, hon,” Mom says, voice a little watery. She dashes at her eyes, and pushes her chair back; Tommy’s hand falls completely away.

“Well!” Mom says with false brightness. She gets to her feet, shuts the album, and drags it up into her arms. “I should head up. I’ve got an early morning tomorrow and I don’t need to keep pestering you with old pictures.”

“Lisa,” Tommy starts, face hangdog, eyes puppy-sad.

“It was so nice seeing you again, Tommy,” she says, eyes wet, smile too wide. “You’ve got a standing invitation to dinner, so be sure to stop by some night when you have the chance. Glad you boys had fun!” She turns to Lawson on her way out. “Thanks for cleaning up, hon! I’ll see you in the morning.” She blows him a kiss and whisks out of the room, skirt swishing in her wake.

Lawson braces his hands back against the counter and listens to her slot the album back into its place on the shelf in the next room; the stairs creak in all the familiar places as she heads up to bed.

Tommy twists around to straddle his chair and folds his arms over the back of it, chin propped glumly on his fist. Now that Mom and the album and the cheery mood are gone, he looks exhausted and drawn. “Sorry,” he says, words muddied by the way his chin is smooshed into the back of his hand. “I said I bet she had some funny pictures of you. I didn’t mean for all of that to happen.”

Lawson shakes his head. “Nah. She was gonna find some reason to get the album out. If you kept coming around.” He doesn’t mean for the last to come out hopeful, but he thinks it does.

Tommy’s brows quirk. “I do have a standing invitation for dinner, after all.” His smile is the barest upward twitch at the corners of his mouth, but it tugs hard at Lawson all the same. 

Because I was only writing from Lawson's POV, and wasn't revealing what was in anyone else's heart or mind through direct perspective, it was essential that every scene be precise in its execution. You know exactly how sad and sympathetic Tommy is here without ever getting inside his head, even if Lawson is still paddling a canoe up De Nile. In Lawson's mind, the photo album is a pared-down representation of what he sees as his great shame: he didn't finish school, didn't land a lucrative career. He isn't the kid he used to be - he's an adult with his priorities straight, with a good work ethic, with a wealth of love and care to offer - but he sees himself that way. Even if he doesn't agree with the means, Tommy's made something of himself, and Lawson's stuck. To his mind, how could Tommy sit here in his time capsule kitchen, looking at old photos of bad haircuts and hospital stays, and not feel like he dodged a bullet?

It's clear, though, even through the screen of Lawson's assumptions and prejudices, that Tommy wishes he'd been here for all of it, even all the bad parts. In his own life, he's dealt with all the dangerous, crazy drama that populates my other books: drug deals, and underground business meetings, and shootouts. But none of that bears the heaviness of living day-to-day without much hope, but with a lot of love for the people you're limping along with. Lawson's circumstances are so wonderfully ordinary, and so terribly burdensome, and it's a burden Tommy can't believe he's held up beneath so well. He's so, so impressed by him, and doesn't even know how to convey that properly. 

I've written a lot of books about wild, outlaw drama, and though those books do tackle real issues, and are fleshed out with real life details, I wanted most of that stuff to remain at the edges of this story. It was the perfect counterpoint to writing Lord Have Mercy, which is so very plot-driven. This novel got to be entirely character-driven; it got to be soft, and sad, and poignant. Because Lawson's life is so normal in a way that an outlaw's isn't, I had the chance to write in a way that was taut, and sharp, and relatable in an immediate way, and their love story gets to be this tender little nugget of ordinary that glows with vicarious warmth.