The water in the lake was perfect and I had stayed in too long, but finally surrendered and began the long, sad task of closing the summer house. 
It was supposed to take a hour or so but took so much longer; all of the furniture had to be put back into place, animals shooed away and there were weeds growing up through the oven into the kitchen. 
All the while I read over two essays, both of which lost focus in the middle, and kept my eye on the TV and The Beatles reunion where Lennon played on despite being crushed beneath his piano. 
It was a melancholy song, one I had never heard before, and got back to what had to be done, until everything was in the boat and we set sail, back for the city.
Tag Archives: writing process
Sister, Sister, Wherever You Have Gone
I remember when we bounced in the big chair to The Partridge Family and K-Tel’s Fantastic 22. 
And I remember when we threw the little metal Santa Claus too high and it smashed through the window and we all ran. 
There were the trips to the cottage, the puzzles, the rain, the boat trips across the lake.
I remember your pained expressions too, you not wanting to be there, anywhere but with your dumb siblings, away with the crowd, all the excitement and things like that. 
And I remember not liking you so much for any of that. But it’s just kid’s stuff now, right? We move on, yes? 
I mean, if you hold things too tight, they drive right into you and there’s nothing left, just petty agendas, seeing everything in the world, except where you came from. 
And that just goes on until you get to the end and then you wonder what happened.
Not Half There: Adrift in Turkey
My eyes were closed and I was in this narrow half gap between the back of one thing and the back of another. 
I thought of the hard dirty sand at the far end and how it looked half round and half hard, each shape sticking out of the other. 
I didn’t know what that meant, and I remembered this as if I had been here before, half asleep or completely in and then out, in this only the day before and years on. 
I tried to turn my head out of that, remembering this secret half world that isn’t secret at all but a portal from one thing to the next, the jumping off point of the thing of me here and the thing of me there. 
It seems that what I’m trying to do is take what I know from each, knowing that isn’t allowed, that it is probably illegal, indeed against the laws of thinking, the rules that keep me human, beyond being stupid, believing this is actually where my head might live. 
I can only escape for so long and I know I will only come back to here and find that I never left. It seems like that anyway.
Porn Marionette
I am not a writer. I am not a teacher. These are my chosen disguises. I walk down the hall, sure-footed, professionally dressed, and see my reflection in the fish tank, dark with purple-black rocks, and wonder who that might actually be. 
He vanishes like a wave and I listen to my steps down the next hall. I think of being something else, a truck driver, a goaltender, an emperor, a porn star. 
I think of myself in these modes where I might not hold my thoughts so tight, not be so worried about others laughing at my stupidity. I wonder about choosing again, being another me. I look at those around – these nincompoops in nincompoop hats – and cringe. I forge on, alone, less of anything, but less a marionette, a sitcom bit player, stumbling in for my laugh. 
I have to be happy with that. And tell myself that again and again.
Strength in a Line
It is impossible to define what makes beauty. We tend to  think it is in the face. 
The nose can’t be too big, nor the ears, eyes, teeth, lips; the skin cannot have a scar, a mark of any kind.
Most important of all is in the jaw, the line from neck to chin, defined, curved, a strength of line upon which all else sits.
The look must be full and indifferent, demanding, subsumed, terrified, trapped, raw, all at the same time, a performer desperately nervous for her debut.
It’s a lot to ask.
Master Nate Part III: The Sting
Master Nate sat, his slouched dark form against the orange plastic, in the front pew of Pinkberry and pretended to read. 
He would look up and smile, as if suddenly noticing a girl from school, when he had been tracking her every move, and get her into conversation, hoping she would sit. That was his schtick.
Lauren was a Junior with medium length auburn hair, long lashes and a high forehead. She flushed when we told her our plan. “How bad will it be for him?”
“He’ll be fired, maybe jail.”
“I’m in.”
She sat down with him and asked if he wanted to come to a party. He said he couldn’t until she said it was just her. He walked at her side, just behind, letting his hand bump into hers. We went ahead and waited on the balcony of Kristie’s parent’s place. 
He came into the apartment like a burglar, looking for cameras, and moved cautiously into the living room, ready to flee. He stood at the window, looking out past the cedar hedge and our heads in behind.
“You want some tequila?” She said it too quickly and offered the bottle like it was a bomb, and it looked like he would go, until she sat on the edge of the couch and stretched out her legs.
“I’m more of a tea drinker.”
She smiled. “Oh, I like tea.”
“That’s my girl.” He stepped toward her and leaned on the back of the couch.
“You don’t drink at all?”
“Just my tea.’ He reached out like he was waving away a spiderweb and then had his hand on her hair.
She looked up, waiting, and he suddenly plunged, grabbing her chin with his other hand, bending her face up into his. He kissed her terribly, like he was eating at the trough.
We recorded everything.
“Master Nate.” My voice sounded like it was coming out the back of my head.
He looked up, frozen like a cardboard cut-out, his eyes wide, his arms dangling in disrepair. “What’s that?”
Kristie had already dialed, walking straight past him and stood in front of the door. “I’d like to report a rape.”
“What?” Master Nate’s face collapsed, the weight of it pushing out his pink-grey lower lip. “Rape? No.”
She glared back at him, the judgement already in. “Yes, he’s right here.”
Godzilla in Repose
I understand that Godzilla has her bad days. I understand that she has this destructive streak and needs to get that out. 
But what about her other side, beyond the fury? What about this giant reptile in repose? I would like to see her after the destruction, with all of that pent-up frustration out, what she does in repose. The sadness of the monster in her underwater cavern, alone and misunderstood, the beauty of her regretful eye looking over her rocky lair. 
To understand Godzilla as all anger and violence is silly and human-centric; there is so much more to her than that.
The question is when a film-maker will take on this far more interesting story, this existential examination of how we might seek a way out beyond all the noise and annihilation.
Afraid of the Sliminess Inside
I remember being afraid of the dark. 
I was afraid of being alone. I was afraid of the water, the sharks, the depth and sliminess. I remember lying in my bed, scared of my dreams, scared of what was to come, scared of things on my little body, scared I would die of something too young. 
I checked for early signs of a heart attack. I ran from wasps. I hid in tiny places I was afraid of. I didn’t want to be alone. I’m still afraid of that. And all of the other things too.
I’m older, not wiser, afraid as ever. I want to get out of that. I want to find myself, some truth, something that will make me the notion I hold inside or holds me. 
It’s a funny thing, this interior battle, wanting to be another, wiser, braver me. I play that game. And then I pretend that I don’t. I’m better than that. I’m okay with who I am. That’s what I say to myself. That’s my little self con. 
And I beat myself up and stay hiding, almost believing in my dreams, myself, but more  than that, stay that kid screaming inside.Â
Just Writing Today at Grub Street Writing Conference
The weekend’s focus on social media platforms and the need to tweet burned me out this weekend, and so I focused on the good stuff today: writing. I tried to follow Mitali Perkins’ advice (Sense of Place in the Novel) in using specific nouns and verbs in a scene:
The patio was desolate – all of the building’s plush chaise lounges and teak tables still stacked away for the hurricane. My hands were sticky on the railing, the cedar trees huddled in the corner like scared kids. 
The police sirens were more distant now, but the acrid smell of diesel fumes was still there. I dug the ball of my foot into the wood, squishing out the thick brown water and shredded brown leaves.
I was then inspired to write a character description in another class: Val is quick to smile, comically graphic, her whole face stretched out, eyes gone tiny, all teeth, stunning at first, her entire being revealed as a wonder-eyed girl, but arch and sad, needing to be loved and knowing how this was how to do it. 
She wore little girl jeans, stone washed, and tucked her hands in her pockets, her thumbs out, leaning back, her pelvis girlishly out. She was adorable. And she knew it.
The weekend closed with the amusing and profound words of Walter Mosely: “Writers learn to be ignored and then envied. I turn on the computer in the morning. After that, everything is magic. Writing is my soul.” 
Finally, in answer to a question about what it was like to grow up with a Jewish mother and black father, he responded, “White people have to learn to stop being white. None of us are the same.” As simple as that.
Master Nate, Part Two
Kristie called late the next night. “I can’t get that freak Master Nate out of my head.”
“I don’t want to talk about him.”
“Vicks, that pedophile is still teaching kids.”
“There’s nothing I can do about it.”
“Fucking report it.”
“You don’t think I already did? I wrote the whole thing up, summary, dates, everything. There were two other girls involved as well. We made it very formal with a signed letter and gave it to the principal.”
“And?”
“And nothing. Principal Kirk said our evidence was hearsay.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“His words against ours.”
“You should sue the school.”
“I don’t want to think about any of this shit again.”
She breathed out hard like she was smoking. “We have to fucking nail this bastard.”
“He’s not worth it.”
“You can tell yourself that all you like, Vicks, but you know it’s bullshit. This guy needs to go down. And we can do it.”
“You’re not serious.” But I knew she was.
(Master Nate, Part One appeared April 25, 2014)