Trying To Find Meaning In An Accident

It’s been 2.5 weeks since I slid a few feet down a mountain, broke my ankle and the tibia and fibula bones in my leg, got helicoptered out, and had a surgery called Open Reduction and International Fixation, meaning I now have a rod and several screws in my leg and will get stopped whenever I go through metal detector (I think that last detail is kind of cool, at least in theory. At least my kids think it’s cool). I have spent most of my post-accident time staring at a lot of things. The lake outside my hospital room in the Adirondacks (Saranac Lake). The bright blue bruising on my thigh and big toe. The weird swollen transformation of my left leg. The mountains I wasn’t climbing. The photos my husband took of the people who helped rescue me and also the photo of me flying through the air on a harness up toward the helicopter. I thought I would also get a lot of reading and writing done. Or at least I could get caught up on email. But apparently you can’t read or write on OxyCodone. At least I couldn’t. 

Now that I am no longer in constant pain, and I’m off prescription pain killers (yes! because that was scary), it seems a good time to ease back into writing. But my brain is frustratingly resistant to this plan. I wonder why. Self defense? Denial? An absorption of bad habits (I did a lot of googling in the hospital so why not just keep googling away the mornings)? Laziness? Tiredness? Inertia? Self-pity? Disinterest? I’m hoping to ignore all of the unhelpful signals I’m sending myself right now (don’t write don’t write don’t write) (instead of writing, sleep! Stare out the window! Make granola! Buy weird things on Amazon! Do yoga! Sleep! Watch your leg!) and instead force myself to sit in this now uncomfortable desk chair and do the work. My plan: write 140 characters for Twitter. Write a few blog posts. Do some critique-free journaling about details of the accident. Respond to some writing related emails. Find a way to sit comfortably with my leg elevated. Send out a few stories to journals/magazines. Then start on a children’s story. Then get back to the monster project I was working on (before the “vacation”) about the end of the world.  

Thoughts about my accident and writing: I fell several feet coming down from Algonquin in the Adirondacks at a steep part of the trail. I must have landed in the worst way possible because several feet is not that far to fall. I don’t remember falling, but I remember suddenly being on my back, and a man — Tim, who I like to think of as my guardian stranger–rushed over and said, “Are you okay?” and “Oh God,” and “You are really hurt. You have a bad injury.” and “Are you hiking alone?” I looked at my leg and saw something was very wrong with it, it was twisted at an odd terrible angle, so I closed my eyes and didn’t open them again for a long time. Tim called for my husband. “Your wife is hurt,” he shouted. “Come quickly!” My husband must have started running, as Tim added, “Not that quick,” worried there would be another fall. Tim held onto my left hand. With my right hand, I gripped my husband’s arm and left nail marks in his skin as they tried to straighten out and stabilize my leg. My daughter’s stuffed animal lamb was used as a cushion. I really wanted someone to stick something in my mouth that I could bite down on, a stick, or ? That idea didn’t seem to go anywhere. At least no one agreed to put a stick in my mouth. Tim covered me with his rain coat. Passing hikers stopped by and asked how they could help. I was hysterical for a while. I asked my husband to shoot me. We didn’t have a gun, of course. All we had was Advil. Time slowed. My daughter held my hand and touched my face. This was not how I wanted my children to see me. I needed both of my hands held at all times as that grounded me. My legs were shaking and my teeth were chattering though I wasn’t cold, and the shaking made the pain worse. My husband tried to distract me by reading Castle of Llyr to my kids and to me. That book unfortunately is my least favorite Chronicles of Pyrdian book. Somehow our cell phones worked. A younger couple had called 911 and was connected with DEC dispatch, and was told a helicopter and some rangers were coming out, resulting in the longest 2.5 hours of my life. The rescue helicopter arrived, hovered over us, then flew off, then circled back again, hovered, and flew off. The helicopter blades created a tremendous noise and its wind shook the trees. The fly-bys were because the pilot had to burn fuel before evacuating me from the mountain. Something about the warmer weather. I closed my eyes and pretended the helicopter was never going to come, that this was my new reality, lying in the middle of the trail with my destroyed leg surrounded by my pain. When I opened my eyes, a ranger was next to me, preparing the harness. I assumed I would be getting pain meds. I assumed I would be taken up in some kind of cot-like stretcher. But no pain meds and no stretcher. At some point my husband was busy preparing to help move me to the pick-up spot, while my daughter was helping radio the helicopter, which meant no one was holding my hand. The feeling of my hand adrift left me panicked. I began opening and closing my hand, and when Tim saw this, he held onto me. The ranger said, “Grab onto this here, but don’t touch that,” pointing to the contraption that would be hooked into the wire lowering down from the helicopter.  I didn’t totally understand but then that might have been the point of the situation, a lack of recognizable logic and sense.   

When I’ve gone through traumatic and difficult events in the past, I’ve always felt like I’ve had two selves experiencing the scene: my writing self and my regular self. The writing self takes a step back, taking notice of small details, and points out interesting observations, assuring me that whatever I am going through, it will be worthwhile, as I might be able to use it in my writing somehow. This accident was strange because it was like my writing self jumped ship and abandoned me, and all I had was myself, freaking out from the pain, and from the uncertainty about how and when I was going to get down the mountain.

Still, I knew I wanted a notebook with me as a kind of talisman. When the helicopter was on its way, I asked my husband to gather together a few items I could bring to the hospital. My phone, insurance card, kindle, and most importantly this green notebook and pen. I kept repeating myself, asking him to make sure the notebook would go with me. I imagined writing down a narrative of the accident, and writing down how it felt to be raised in a harness toward a hovering helicopter, meaning I left my children and husband below on the ground, while the sun was about to settle behind the mountains, knowing my family still had three hours of hiking left to go. The final light on the tops of the trees was golden and powerful. That narrative never emerged. I would go on to write only three small pages over the next 2 days in the hospital, and after that, up until this point, I’ve written nothing. I want to understand this block, my disinterest, for the first time, in recording a dramatic life-changing event. But I don’t understand it. I only know it’s still there and I still need to push against it, this curtain surrounding the actual experience around which it’s very difficult to form the words.

I think part of the difficulty in writing about this is that it was a freak accident. No one can be blamed. I was wearing trusty hiking boots and poles. I was going slowly. It was just that the trail was wet. Everyone was slipping. My husband had slipped minutes before. A woman had slipped and split open her arm a few minutes before that. Me crashing down there and having surgery and having to hobble about on crutches seems to be serving no higher or interesting or illuminating purpose. There seems to be a lack of complexity in this situation and perhaps the point of view that I’m most familiar with–mine–is the least interesting and most predictable point of view, for storytelling purposes at least.

 

When the author Colum McCann spoke in Syracuse last year, he touched upon an assault he experienced after intervening in a domestic dispute, and how afterwards, something changed in him, and he felt it necessary to go back and revise most of the stories in his upcoming book Thirteen Ways of Looking. It sounded like he gained some deep understanding through his own pain and from the violence inflicted on him from another person. Is it different when one’s physical injury comes from an accident? In such a situation, can anything be gained?

I think so, though some of the revelations I’ve had are very personal and perhaps less relevant to everyone else. For instance, I had never before reached my limits of how much physical pain I can endure. Now I can say that I’ve been there to that bleak place. Previously the most pain I felt was natural childbirth, which didn’t come close to approaching the feeling of having my leg splinted sans painkillers before I was taken up in the helicopter. (I also wonder productive pain–i.e. you will have a baby when you’re done with this!–may be easier to bear than non-productive pain.) I would like someday to try and describe the experience of that pain more, how animalistic it was, overriding any rational thought and hope. How even though it lasted only 2 minutes, that time expanded and became everything. I think I may only be able to describe it through metaphor. 

Another revelation: there is still such kindness in the world. How beautifully intuitive it is, to reach out toward a person in enormous pain and hold their hand. The fact that humanity is still a kind species is so easy to forget if you read the news. There are so many little incidents of kindness that I’ve experienced these past two weeks. How the man who held my hand on the mountain, Tim, walked with my family down the mountain in the dark back to our cabin. How he offered to carry my daughter when she started hiking slowly. The PA at Lake Placid who told me I needed to have surgery. After he told me this, I began crying, and he placed his hand on my arm. After feeling such enormous pain in my leg, his simple touch was a revelation, compassionate and gentle. The high school girl who kept me company beside Heart Lake and I swear I saw in her glimpses of my 8 year old daughter. I thought, I am seeing how good and kind and empathetic my future daughter is going to be. It was a beautiful vision and I was so grateful for it. Everyone who shared their stories of how they healed from similar injuries. The woman in her 80’s who was grocery shopping in Lake Placid, she was leaving the store bathroom while I was entering, and she held the door for me. A minute later, she re-entered the bathroom, and said she was going to wait for me, because the door was very heavy and she didn’t want me to be trapped in the bathroom with my crutches. While I washed my hands, she struggled with the automatic paper towel machine and handed me a neatly folded paper towel. It’s not like she was in great health herself. She told me she was a retired nurse and knew how hard it was getting around on crutches. She opened the bathroom door for me, which wasn’t a simple task for her either–what’s up with such heavy non-automatic bathroom doors, people?!–and then she wished me luck and went on her way.

Slow pacing in a Hitchcock film!?!

Yes.

(side note: I have a new portal story up at Lightspeed as well as an author interview)

We have the occasional family movie night over here, which started as a way for me to keep sane while my husband was in a long distance master's program which required him to be gone anywhere from 4 days to 2 weeks every other weekend. But it ended up being pretty fun watching movies with the kids so we kept the tradition going. We all take turns choosing the film, meaning our movie watching history is quite varied, encompassing Spy Kids, Irving Berlin's Easter Parade, Big Hero 6, Kiki's Delivery Service, and Singin' in the Rain. 

This past weekend was my turn to pick, and I decided it was time to introduce Hitchcock to my kids. My dad is a huge movie buff--he also collects and sells 16mm film and fixes projectors--so I grew up in a house dripping in movie history. My dad's approach to movies certainly shaped my approach to reading: he loves movies unabashedly, with little regard to genre labels. Mystery, horror, sci-fi, fantasy, literary, classics, whatever. So in addition to watching The Blob as a kid (ah, that movie theater scene with the air vents!), and The Attack of the 70-Foot-Women, and Them!, and some movie about brains from outer space, and a whole lot of Twilight Zones, and The Godfather, Hitchcock was thrown into my childhood at some point, and I have fond memories of watching Rope, and Rear Window, and North by Northwest as a kid. (I do not have fond memories of watching Psycho, as I am forever terrified of hotel bathtubs with shower curtains.) 

So I've made a point to expose my kids to older movies as well. My daughter giggled all through "Make 'Em Laugh" from Singin' in the Rain, and we all found Errol Flynn's 1938 Adventures of Robin Hood to be very, very exciting, though the sound quality sucked. I was a little surprised about cocaine's appearance in Charlie Chaplin's Modern Times, but, you know, that just kick started the discussion about drugs and addiction that every parent has to have at some point (but did I really want to have that discussion when my daughter was 5? Thanks a lot, Charlie Chaplin).

For Hitchcock, I started off by showing my kids this spectacular preview to North by Northwest:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HRfmTpmIUwo

My 10-year-old son thought Hitchcock was hilarious. My daughter, now 7, got excited about the action scenes. 

North by Northwest went over great. I mean, it's not the perfect kid's film using today's definition of "kid film." The drinking scene needed some explanation (Cary Grant's character Roger Thornhill is forced to drink too much bourbon then he's forced to drive his car in an attempt to kill him). And some of the, what to call it, romantic (?) dialogue between Roger and Eve Kendall was waaaaaaay over the top (Roger: The moment I meet an attractive woman, I have to start pretending I have no desire to make love to her. / Eve: What makes you think you have to conceal it? / Roger: She might find the idea objectionable./ Eve: Then again, she might not.) But I'll take that kind of stuff to the choppy, non-stop frantic energy of today's current films that are marketed to children. Kids, it's assumed, are unable to or unwilling to linger.

Writing, antidepressants, and depression

My therapist has been bringing up anti-depressants every few months since I started seeing her in December 2015. The first time, I said there was no way I was going to take medication. My response was like a reflex. Where does such a reflex come from? Partly, I think I wanted to love my brain as it was. I wanted to think my brain was normal and good and, on the days when my brain did not treat me kindly, that I could wrestle it back into shape using behavior modifications, exercise, and my writing. My depression has never been the debilitating, can't get out of bed sort. It's chronic and low grade with occasional dips into major depression mixed with suicidal ideation. It's not pleasant, but most of the time I can appear functional, and sometimes my brain will start doing some weird warped thinking that I can put into a story.

The second time my therapist brought up antidepressants, I said I'd think about it, and I thought about it for a few days, and then I said again, no way! I love my brain! And, to be honest, I had become very interested in writing about, and through, the low points of my depression. I felt like I was being given an opportunity to explore this weird dark murky awful landscape as a writer, and the writing I did while in such a place was dark, murky, weird, but also interesting to me.

Then recently I had a Very Bad Weekend, where my suicidal ideation ratcheted up a step, and it freaked me out a little, and also I was spending so much energy trying to answer the question "Do I want to be here anymore?" that I was having trouble doing anything else for a few days other than surviving and writing. (An awful complex fact: I think the writing I did during this time is actually pretty fascinating, and weird, and dark. I'm hoping to turn it into a creative non-fiction piece. So I don't think my depression ever ruined my writing, though it did narrow the focus of my writing to me me me me me.) At my next appointment, my therapist brought up medication again, citing some reasonable evidence based data: that meds + therapy have been shown to be more effective than meds or therapy on their own. That I have been working very hard at therapy for 1.5 years and maybe it was time to try something a little different. She mentioned the possibility that maybe I didn't have to go through so much suffering in order to write or to live my life. She doesn't believe that artists need to be depressed in order to be good deep artists. Sometimes freeing one's self from depression can actually help one's art, she said. I said okay, yeah, I'll think about it, and this time, I did actually do some thinking and some questioning.  

Here's what I thought about. How useful was my suffering or my depression? And who was it useful to? Was it useful to my writing? What kind of writer would I be without my depression, and without access to that very deep dark hole of a place in which I fell from to time? Would taking meds mean I was agreeing that my brain wasn't normal? Was I just buying into society's idea of a normal brain? What if my husband liked me better on meds? What if I liked myself better on medication? Was I participating in the over-medicating of American society if I started taking anti-depressants? What would meds do my writing? And, of course, there was the question, how much did I want to be here? 

I had no idea the answers to any of these questions, so I started reading about writers and medication, or at least googling about it. I found some essays on line.

Depression sketches

I have chronic low-grade depression (dysthymia, a word I will never be able to spell without looking it up) with some episodes of major depression. I also have a son with Asperger's/Autism and a complicated marriage. So I'm in a lot of therapy now and have been for the past few years. Couples, individual, parent therapy to help my son, plus, as an extra bonus these past 8 months, physical therapy and gait retraining for a stubborn running injury. Upside: I can put therapists, and being in therapy, in all of my stories! As I know a lot about it now. Downside: it takes up a lot of time and I'd rather be writing (or showering). In couples therapy recently, I began doodling to calm me down, as couples counseling is as relaxing as someone looking into your eyes, and holding your hand, and pulling off your fingernails one by one, but also because I like doodling. Here's me, on a relatively okay day, making a neat orderly picture while I talked with my husband and therapist. 

Then I had a bad week. My depression flared up. Here's me at couples counseling, 2 weeks later, when I was stuck in one of those low points.

These two drawings are comforting to me for several reasons. I've often written through, and about, my depression, but I hadn't drawn through it before. It's nice to know that something as invisible as functional depression (well, invisible to other people at least) can come out in a sketch. Visual proof, perhaps. Also, I see these two drawings as a reminder that at some point my mood will inevitably improve. I was once able to draw neat boxes; then I was unable to draw neat boxes for a while; but now, at this moment, I am able to draw neat boxes again. The second drawing allows me to see my depressed self at a distance as well, which I find fascinating (I tried taking a photo of myself in a very depressed state once, because I wanted to see what I looked like. I guess I'm glad I did that, in case I have to describe someone who looks unbearably sad, but it's a hard photo to look at. This drawing is easier for me to stomach). I see in that second sketch someone--okay, I see me--trying very hard to bring some kind of recognizable order to the chaos that was my mind at that moment. I appreciate and admire that some part of my mind was trying very hard to draw some recognizable shapes, even if the depressed part of my mind immediately went in afterwards and began to scribble methodically all over those shapes. (That is actually a great summary of conversations between my non-depressed and depressed parts of myself: the little non-depressed part of my mind trying to stay hopeful while the depressed part of my mind easily overwhelms it by releasing a vitriolic storm). 

And then, in the upper middle of the drawing, I swear I drew a portal for myself. Not consciously but I can't help seeing it there now. I've been obsessed in my writing about portals for so long, and I love that some part of my mind was trying to create one for me, a dark tunnel out of the mess of myself through which I could go.  

Another book for the Slow Paced Genre Realism category

The Leftovers!

I forgot an essential book for the “slow-paced genre realism” category I recently made up: The Leftovers by Tom Perrotta. I’m kind of ashamed to admit that I discovered the novel after watching the first episode of the excellent TV series. (The beginning of The Leftovers pilot, by the way, contains what may be the best three minutes in television I’ve seen. Please watch if it you haven’t! Overall The Leftovers an amazing job of depicting the complexity of parents and parenthood and this three minute intro is no exception).

https://youtu.be/x7qDbpnPHpY

The premise of The Leftovers: 2% of the world population has disappeared (about 140 million people). Though we get a sense of the chaos that happened immediately after "the departure" as it's called (and that chaos certainly has apocalyptic tones), what is brilliant about both the book and the TV series is that the story really begins 3 years after the departure, when things have kind of returned enough to normal to resemble literary realistic fiction. The world still works. People have jobs. The infrastructure is functional. Yet everyone is affected--haunted?--by the disappearances and are dealing with their grief in their own way. Nobody understands why it happened: was it the Rapture? If so, why were non-Christians taken along with Christians? And why were bad people taken as well as good people? What does it say about someone if they were left behind? And where did the people who are gone go? Did they go to a better place? A worse place? Did they just disappear? 

Those questions are never answered, by the way, which I think is great. The answers might be the preoccupation of a different version of the novel, one more formulaically genre-ish, but this book's concern is the way people deal with their grief, and how people move on, or don't.

The Leftovers strikes me as “post-apocalypse light." In most post-apocalyptic fiction that I've read, enough of the world’s population disappears to disrupt normal day-to-day functioning. The planet becomes a scary wasteland, and the story concerns itself with how people survive and eventually rebuild. They're like adventure novels. In The Leftovers, only enough of the population is missing for practically everyone to be affected in some way. Most people saw someone disappear or they are related to someone who disappeared. But more than enough people are left that life can continue on seemingly unaffected on the surface. Everything is still functional in theory--there is electricity, cars, jobs, grocery stores, food. It's the grief and the doubts that are crippling: why were certain people taken and why were certain people left behind? It's really a novel about grief and all the ways that we can lose people. 

The book is slow and beautiful and subtle and devastating but also somewhat hopeful at the end. It also contains one of my favorite passages about motherhood. This passage rips my heart out by its teeth, so I'm going to include it below. 

In Which I Make Up a Categorization Called “Slow-paced Genre Realism”

(What I'm reading now: Dreamland: The True Tale of America's Opiate Epidemic, by Sam Quinones; about to start Madeleine Thien's Do Not Say We Have Nothing, which is such an awesome title; and reading the YA urban fantasy My Diary from the Edge of the World, Jodi Lynn Anderson, to my daughter)

I had a great time this past month savoring Version Control by Dexter Palmer. It clocks in at a little over 18 hours as an audio book, but once I settled into the story, I found the slow pacing to be really wonderful. I wonder if we can create a sub-genre in science fiction or fantasy of slow-paced genre novels (or slow-paced genre realism?). Think a little Alice Munro or Karl Ove Knausgard transported into a genre setting. Into such a categorization, I'd throw some of my favorite books: The Book of Strange New Things by Michel Faber, as well as Molly Gloss's Dazzle of the Day and Wild Life. Ah, and how about the beloved The Wall by Marlen Haushofer? My Real Children by Jo Walton? And then there is this one book I read 20 years ago, which I can not locate, no matter how many creative Google searches I do, about a regular California community and a regular woman, maybe a mother, who is just essentially living in an almost boring way--and then, in what's maybe the last two chapters, there is a nuclear holocaust. But that is such a small part of the book, maybe even an afterthought... 

I'll stop my list now. But I do admire the authors who write this way. I think it takes some courage to straddle the line, not just in style but in plotting, between genre and realistic fiction as they do, as genre readers may find such fiction slow, and literary readers may wonder why there has to be aliens in the story.

My love for slow sci-fi and fantasy doesn't mean I avoid or despise meaningful plot-driven  genre books. The Underground Airlines comes to mind, a page turner, but also fascinating in its alternate history of the U.S., but also a dark mirror to who we are now. In more traditional genre books though, I find myself drawn to the minor characters who are left behind in quests, who don't save anybody or become involved in intrigue or do anything spectacular--who are simply living their ordinary lives against an interesting fantastical backdrop, and often I wish the story was about them rather than the hero. 

I came across an essay of Dexter Palmer's on Strange Horizons: "On Alan Moore's Jerusalem." It's a lovely essay, written with the same generosity, thoughtfulness, and curiosity that I found in Version Control. The essay's opening captures some of what I've been thinking about lately concerning writing, readership, and readers' responses to a work--in particular, what seems like people's impulse to judge, rather than a movement to first try and understand. To equate quality with whether or not they liked the book, not allowing that it's possible for a book to be successful and, at the same time, for them not to like it. Rather than thinking of work we don't like as a failure, there is the possibility that maybe it's us: that we are uninterested in reading the work in the way the author intended, or that maybe we just don't like that sort of writing.

The Joy of List Making Part 2: The Throwback Special

I recently became obsessed with The Throwback Special written by Chris Bachelder. I started off listening to it as an audiobook while aqua jogging in the local YMCA's pool. It's a difficult book to listen to in the first place, lots of shifting points of views (the novel follows 22 men) and tons of little gems of descriptions and dialogue that you might miss if your attention wanders for, say, a second. It's especially difficult to listen to while aqua jogging in a pool, as pools are noisy to begin with, at least the pool I use, and you're also getting splashed, and sometimes the nice water aerobics women sharing the tiny roped off corner of the pool with you are trying to talk to you. (What is the perfect book to listen to while aqua jogging? I haven't quite found it yet...). So after a first listen through, I read this book again, this time on my Kindle. Then I listened to it one more time. Then I went back and reread anything I highlighted, which seriously was about half of the book.

I think I'm done with my rereading, but really, it's an amazing book stylistically, a book I tried to study and learn from as I read through it again. How does Bachelder manage to be so funny while not belittling his characters and turning them into a joke?  How, in this time, in the current political/publishing climate, do you write about 21 white middle-aged men (1 of the men is bi-racial) and still have their stories seem vital, valuable, and worth telling? How do you take a story about football and guys and make a reader like me, who is completely uninterested in football, and prefers I'll be honest to read stories about women, love the novel? And then there's all the smaller stuff: how Bachelder is an expert at not over-explaining. How he slips in small details and then leaves the details behind, letting the reader make of them what they will (such as this hint at a character being suicidal: "In his garage where he did not kill himself he had constructed a prototype of a self-washing house window."). How he has his characters tell these amazing, interesting, yet at the same time ordinary stories to each other and then the particular story isn't brought up again. The story isn't connected to some future event either. It's put out there, often in a monologue format, and usually not everyone is listening to it, and that telling of the story is its own purpose.  

I could go on and on but I'll limit myself to one more thing Bachelder does extremely well: list making as a narrative device. His lists have this great rhythm to them but I also love how he breaks the rhythm with dialogue or grammatical variation or by varying the length of a list item. And also I love the emotional variation of his lists too.

TRENT HAD COME HOME to find his daughter going down on a boy. Jeff had come home to find his daughter going down on a girl. Andy had come home to find his kid doing like this with an aerosol can of whipped cream.

“Yeah, whippets,” said George, the public librarian.

Tommy had come home to find that his dog had eaten a package of diapers. The surgery was twenty-five hundred dollars, and now he had pet insurance. Nate had come home to find his wife Skyping with a man in a military uniform. Bald Michael had come home to find his son hurting a cat. Whenever Peter comes home now, his daughter is reading. He was so anxious for her to learn to read, so worried when she showed little interest, but now that’s all she does. She doesn’t even talk to Peter anymore. She just sits in corners, knobby knees pulled up to her chin, the book held over her face like this, like a veil. The other men knew about books over the faces of girls. Carl came home to find his son building something with a lot of wires. Wesley came home to find that his twins had built twin snowmen. The picture was on his phone if he could only find it. Fat Michael had a friend who came home to find that the rags he had used to apply linseed oil to his furniture had spontaneously combusted, causing sixty thousand dollars of property damage. When Steven had come home, everyone in the house was just gone. 

List Making Part 1: the joy of post-its

(side note: an interview with me is up on the F&SF blog where I discuss the background to the story that's in the Jan./Feb. issue of the magazine)

I'm going to post about some amazing lists soon from the novel The Throwback Special (by Chris Bachelder), but first, this development for my writing desk: I now have a bulletin board, and I have post-its. I'm combining both of these things to create....lists! I'm hoping this will help me stay organized when I write and make me feel like I am choosing to work on whatever I am working on. It has been suggested that I am obsessed with post-its in other parts of my life too, but I really find they are essential, as both a parent (you can literally stick a note to your child) (I'm joking, I don't usually do that) but also as a writer. I especially love them during the revision process. 

Anyhow, here, below, is what I'm trying to work on this week. Current projects today on the left, future things to the right. I just finished a draft of a story I've been working on for a month or two, so I'm taking a few days to get myself organized, process the crazy amounts of notes I've been taking, and maybe do some reading.   

Louise Erdrich, LaRose, Hearts

Back in the summer, I was going through a LaRose / Louise Erdrich obsession, so, in my obsessed state, I decided to go through the novel and make a list of how Louise Erdrich describes and uses her characters' hearts. I remember being interested in a couple things: first, simply, that people's hearts kept coming up. It seemed an unusual descriptive point to keep circling around. But also I was interested in how Erdrich sidestepped cliche and managed to make her heart descriptions meaningful, moving, and illuminating. That's hard to do. It's like trying to describe multiple characters' tears ("Never describe your character's tears," I remember one of my writing teachers once telling me). Just rereading the experts below makes me want to reread LaRose again or maybe read everything Erdrich has ever written. But what about Shirley Jackson?! What about all the great sounding books on all the best of 2016 lists? What about rereading, and rereading, and rereading The Throwback Special, my latest obsession? Anyhow, here are a lot of ways that Erdrich describes hearts.  

 

He lets Landreaux come close enough for him to take the infallible shot. Closer and closer yet. There it is. Peter squeezes the trigger gently with his heart exploding. Nothing.

 

The birds were silent. Snow was falling off the trees that day. She had scrubbed her body red with snow. She threw off everything and lay naked in the snow asking to be dead. She tried not to move, but the cold stabbed ice into her heart and she began to suffer intensely. A person from the other world came. The being was pale blue without definite form. It took care of her, dressed her, tied on her makazinan, blew the lice off, and wrapped her in a new blanket, saying, Call upon me when this happens and you shall live.

 

Landreaux sat down at the table, touched the edge. He didn’t want to speak, to bring up the thing he dreaded. He could feel the tension bubbling up inside, the quickened pump of his heart.

The agreement, whatever we call it, Peter started.

Landreaux just nodded, staring at his fingers.

The question is, said Peter.

Landreaux’s heart just quit.

The question is, said Peter. What’s it doing to him?

Landreaux’s heart started beating again.

What’s it doing to him, he weakly said.

 

You dove, he said. He stroked her shoulder all one way, like feathers.

A mean dove. Who will peck out your heart, she said.

That would hurt.

I can’t help myself. Will you stay with me, she said, suddenly, if I go crazy?

There was desolation in her voice, so he tried to joke.

Well, you already are crazy.

He felt tears on his chest. Oh, he’d gone too far.

In a good way. I love your crazy!

 

A mysterious & lovely package from a Sun reader

Each time I'm lucky enough to have a story in The Sun Magazine, I'm just floored by the emails I receive in response. This doesn't usually (ever?) happen when one is published in literary journals, even very good literary journals, at least in my experience, and though I should be used to it by now, it's hard not to find that radio silence a little disappointing. The emails from Sun readers, on the other hand, are heartfelt, thoughtful, moving, and personal, and I am so grateful--so grateful--so grateful!--SO GRATEFUL!!!!--whenever I receive one. More than the publication itself, hearing from a reader allows me to think that, yes, the lifecycle of that particular piece is now complete. It's left me, and gone out into the world, and done what I've always hoped it would do: find somebody and become something meaningful and separate from myself in that person's life. It's really, really amazing that writing, written in such isolation, can do this.

In response to "Two Moons," my story in the December Sun (which is based in part on my challenges raising my autistic son), a kind reader sent me a beautiful box of wood carvings. For the first week, I kept them out on our kitchen island. My kids were constantly touching and petting and moving them, each asking if they could keep one in their rooms. I finally carried the carvings into my writing space in the attic. In his original email, the reader had mentioned that his carvings told a story of their own, so when I emailed him to let him know they arrived, I asked to know more about that story. He never wrote back, a response I kind of love: it means I have to figure out the meaning on my own.

A New Year's Resolution: reach out more to the writers whose work moves me and let them know how important their stories are to me.

Here's a few pictures of the wood carvings from a photo shoot on my writing desk, taken when I was supposed to be packing for an upcoming trip.... 

wood-carving1