What if. . .

You’ve said it yourself. It’s kept you awake. You keep it pinned like a shining star in the darkest corner of your closet. It haunts your dreams and lights your days; it’s one of the mightiest phrases in a writer’s box of tools: 

The amazing “what if. . .”

“What if” fuels the imagination and can set small, furry feet hurrying down the road in search of adventure.  It can instill a house with sentience and drive its occupants mad with fear.  It can bring wood nymphs to life and set horrors loose down city streets. 

It can open worlds.

“What if” brought the characters of my current WIP (work in progress) to another world.  A world in which outsiders are noticed immediately and sought out for their usefulness to those in power.  As I wrote about Cara and her autistic brother, Mickey, entering this world, I was delighted to delve into a swirl of “what if’s”—and to realize that I had a say in which ones became reality. What if trees could give gifts?  What if a mist could transport people to other worlds? What if colors didn’t exist? This was freedom, unlike any freedom I had found in realistic fiction.  Writing fantasy was amazing!

And as I wrote and explored my world, a great “what if” resounded within me.  An impossible “what if” that had been locked away in my brain for a long time—long before this WIP was begun.  A “what if” that will be recognized by most “typical” sibs of the disabled, even if they’ve never voiced it to others.  What if I could take away Mickey’s disabilities?  What if Mickey weren’t disabled in this other world?

That was when I realized I’d entered “writing as therapy” territory.  That’s not a bad thing—but I think it’s better for writers to be aware of the big issues they’re tackling when they enter the hidden corners and stairwells of this realm.  Otherwise, they may trip on them in surprise.  I realized, as I was writing about Mickey’s transformation, that I had tripped upon one of those unspoken “what if’s” from my late childhood and adolescence.  What if Bobby hadn’t been born with his disabilities?   I took a deep breath and headed down the stairs into the depths of my memory.

Early childhood had been a joyful time.  My family was my family; things were what they were.  I could understand that everyone was different—that wasn’t a mighty hurdle as I learned about my sibs’ disabilities. And we were happy, my sibs and me.  But as I got older, and I passed milestones that my big brother would never reach—learning to read, getting my driver’s license, leaving home for college—the reality of his limitations was something I railed against.  It was unfair.  It was not right. Those were the hardest years for me as a sibling.  I did not talk about these things with my parents.  I knew they had enough on their plates.  But it hurt.

“Someday I be able to read, Frances?  Someday I drive a car, too?”  Bobby was so proud of me, his little sister, reading him books and taking him to the mall.  The thrill of my accomplishments was  real—for him, and for me.  I was happy that I could read.  I was proud that I’d gotten my license.  But there was an added dimension to all of my accomplishments.  An augmented understanding that I was privileged to reach the milestones that many others could not.  That my big brother could not. I had a sense of guilt—the old “why him and not me?”—but also a sense of responsibility.  Everything we are able to do, everything that we take for granted, is a gift.  I wanted Bobby to be able to do these things, too.

Back to the big “what if?”.  What if Bobby had learned to read, had learned to drive?  What if he had been able to hang out with friends, and go to the same school as me, and tell me which teachers to avoid and which classes were the best ones to take?  What then?  Would it have been a better life for him?  I wondered that, and was certain at the time that I knew the answer.

Bobby passed away seven weeks ago.  It is hard.  I miss him terribly.  I wish I could see him again, and yet I know he could not go on. 

I’ve seen how both my siblings’ stories have ended. Their lives were meaningful and full of happiness and satisfaction with the work they were able to do.  I found that, as time passed, “what if they weren’t disabled?” became just an unproductive speculation on my part.  Background noise in the reality of our adult lives. Bobby and Jeannette were who they were, and the world is a better place because they were part of it.  There is no question that’s true.

So why bring it up?  Why raise the old “what if they weren’t disabled?” question as a writer of children’s literature, if, as an adult, I find the question to be unproductive?

Because it’s an opportunity.  An opportunity to explore what I think about disability and fairness and life in the way that I wanted to when I was growing up.  Because that’s what writing and reading are about, at least in part.  We use art and literature to make meaning of the world we live in now.  To create a dialogue with our innermost self about life, and fairness, and love.  Maybe my dialogue will resonate with my readers.  Maybe some of them will have disabled siblings and say, “What, you think about that, too?”  Maybe some will just see it as a chance to explore the impossible.  To think about fairness.  About love.  But, no matter what, the question becomes a door to open.  To explore.

What if that door opened for you?  What if you walked through it and discovered questions in your life that you thought you’d discarded long ago? 

What’s your big “what if. . .?”