Novelist in Lockdown to Control Novel Virus

Covid-19 in NYC, April 8, 2020

Novelist in lockdown to control novel virus, Covid-19 in New York City: As a novelist who writes all day, Monday through Friday, isolation is normal. But lockdown is not! Writing a novel takes me years. By nature (and habit), I aim higher than my reach. So writing requires not just isolation but so much concentration that I lose track of time. What feels like five minutes is closer to five hours. And I’m surprised when my husband arrives home around eight pm or so. I haven’t prepared dinner. So to function in the here and now, I need to eat, drink, and gear up for a long, hard run every night. Since “The Best of Crimes” was published, I fare better if my late-night circuit covers seven miles, not just four. Otherwise, I can’t sleep, and migraines besiege me.

Sickness in Fiction

For years I wrote “The Best of Crimes” in tandem with its sequel. And, the sequel, a work in progress still, currently lack a title. With my lifelong talent for bad timing, the sequel begins in September, 2019. In all the years I’ve spent writing and rewriting this, it never occurred to me that a global, lethal virus would put ordinary life on hold in 2020. The sequel involves many characters. And the plot runs on how they and their families change and grow through decades. Of course, they will survive Covid-19—if I do.

But their lives, like ours, will change in ways I cannot foresee. For years, I’ve invented phrases to use as slang so the dialogue doesn’t age. But the pandemic may reconfigure the basic ways people interact. Granted, an idle question now while everyone on the planet struggles with a crisis unlike any in human memory.

New York City Becomes Covid-19 Epicenter

Further, life in New York City lurks within shuttered spots, because all public venues have closed. Just several weeks ago, the pace and activity here exhilarated and/or exhausted residents and visitors alike. But over the weekend of March 13^th to 16^th, almost all stores, restaurants, bars, and playgrounds closed. Colleges emptied. But especially eerie for someone running at night, traffic disappeared. In daylight, delivery trucks appear in spurts. The city’s transit system reduced the schedules for subways, ferries, and buses. Now, when I can’t sleep, I look out the window and see double rows of ambulances waiting to get to the hospital two blocks away. After a week of dreaming about one person and then another lying on a stretcher and hooked up to an oxygen tank, I thought to close the curtains.

Covid-19 Grows More Dreadful Every Minute

Covid-19 grows more dreadful every minute. And lockdown involves new restrictions every day. Back in March, when those who could, first began working from home, I still ran around at night, jumping to maintain distance from anyone in sight. I wore bright blue Nitrile gloves and waved to signal—nothing personal. We’re all in this together.

And even big, brooding men, apparently struggling with frustrations and injustices beyond me, granted me a smile. Sometimes, they even waved back. Now, however, while we’re all in this together, we cannot ignore that some of us have health insurance, but many do not. And those with temp work, multiple part-time jobs, or none at all, are truly desperate. What’s lost to them isn’t a stack of paper. Every opportunity has evaporated.

• Share

Inspiration, A Writer’s Trickster God

Inspiration, a writer’s trickster god—that’s the only way I’ve ever experienced it. Sometimes the words flow effortlessly, filling pages like magic. Or, a story and its characters suddenly spring to life. So it seems. Often an idea feels as if it flies in from outside of me, as if from thin air.

Checking my high-school Latin, I confirmed that “inspire” originally meant “breathing or blowing into.” Now look at the photo of Michelangelo’s drawing. Divine Inspiration occurs as an angel blows a trumpet into the man’s head.

Yet, in my experience, what feels like “divine inspiration” comes not from an angel but from an imp. Or, as I call it, a trickster god. For, if I’m lucky, within the pages I wrote in an ecstatic rush the trickster god dropped, at most, an important crumb. (Important to me and my novel, anyway.) Such as, something I hadn’t considered yet, but should.

Trickster?

 Once I woke up with a full-fledged character in my head–as close I’ve gotten to real inspiration. A huge boost! And yet, writing his story took many years. Malcolm is wild, insecure, anxious, easily manipulated, hyper-sensitive, and charismatic. My husband finds this novel hilarious, as intended. Unintended, however, is a resemblance between Malcolm and me. Once Manny pointed out the traits and tendencies we share (charisma aside), I conceded. But even if the character is purely an extension of myself, this character’s story of being goaded into starting a cult religion just isn’t going to happen to me.

And even in this case, that ecstatic rush that felt so great? Turned out to be mostly delusion.

For several years now, I can easily write twenty pages a day. I rarely experience anything like inspiration but tap straight into my imagination. However, the words that push the plot end up being a page at best, even in a first draft.

Writing Prompts to Rev Inspiration

So, writing prompts to rev inspiration, like NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) are not for me. Although, you never know. If my torrent ever dries to less than a drip, that external motivation might rescue me.

When my children started school, I was free to let my mind roam for several uninterrupted hours.  At first, I paced the carpet, waiting for inspiration–an idea, a sentence, a character’s name. Listening to my inner thoughts, following their trains, and circling the room might be a weird approach. Certainly, it appeared odd. Because a friend asked if I worried that people would suspect me of drinking. No, anyone who knows me knows a sip of alcohol triggers a five-day migraine. Another friend asked if I ever felt tempted to clean the stove. No again. Those are two traps from which I’m definitely safe. But I and many writers face countless, unnamed traps.

Probably, every fiction writer approaches writing in her or his own way. And, a lucky few do receive amazing inspiration. To where they really do write a stellar novel within a month! But even they should beware of trickster inspiration. Because that brilliant burst of success may get harder and harder to recreate. Like trying to get struck by lightning twice while standing in the same place.

Finally, to me, that angel’s trumpet looks more like a blow dart. Yet the plaque at the Met clearly stated it’s a trumpet.  Nevertheless, it reminds me of Bob Marley singing Trench Town Rock: “…brutalize me with music.”

• Share

Leonardo Drawings, The Royal Collection

Leonardo drawings from the British royal collection went on display this year at Buckingham Palace. Because Leonardo died 500 years ago. So while in London, we visited the art exhibition. I wanted to see the drawings collection for many reasons.

But my main one was that Leonardo drawings absorbed me throughout writing of “The Best of Crimes.” And Leonardo’s “Vitruvian Man” fascinated my narrator. Walter Mitchell saw truth in Leonardo’s brilliant observations. Such as, we derive knowledge only through nature.

Until publication, I called the novel “The Vitruvian Man” And the (still in-progress) progress sequel, “The Vitruvian Woman.” And, if you don’t know the “Vitruvian Man,” my amateurish doubling of a facsimile may remind you. A naked man stands on a circle within a square. And, the drawing’s proportion implies motion. For the man is superimposed upon himself. Standing straight, his arms reach from his shoulders. And a second pair of legs spreads along the circle’s arc. The second pair of arms aligns with the man’s head.

Leonardo Drawings Suggest Motion

Of course, the Vitruvian Man was not among the show at Buckingham Palace. Something I knew beforehand. It resides in Venice. Carefully preserved and rarely shown.

Yet the royal collection of Leonardo Drawings were nonetheless were magnificent. Even the small studies on faded paper.

This study of St. Philip’s head especially intrigued me. Because, although beautiful, the expression conveys an awful bewilderment.

Leonardo drawings at Buckingham Palace included aerial maps, botanicals, and deluges. And even the small, hasty sketches were amazing. Also, every Leonardo drawing suggested motion.

Leonardo’s Status as an Outsider

Unlike Michelangelo, for example, Leonardo was proud to be homosexual. He liked being left-handed and dressed to show off his long, curly red hair. Being bastard allowed him to pursue his own interests. Otherwise, social expectations would require him to join the family business. He often struggled for money. But his status did not limit him.

His biographer, Walter Isaacson, noted that Leonardo could scarcely do long division–and yet he intuited calculus via geometry. Examples appear in his studies of optics and perspective.

Leonardo’s work was transcendent both in art and science. And scholars are still catching up with his discoveries. He valued truth and honor. Both of which sprang from his intense observation of nature matched by his imagination.

The Shock of Betrayal

After we returned home, I read an article about “The Last Supper,” by Makoto Fujimura. The art critic noted that Jesus is speaking in the mural. And he’s telling his disciples: One of you will betray me. Betrayal, Fujimura wrote, was not then the everyday interaction it is now. Rather, in Leonardo’s time, betrayal meant a roiling outrage. And, St. Philip’s expression reveals shock and fear.

Most importantly, St. Philip’s contorted body breaks the horizontal plane in “The Last Supper.” Further revealing the saint’s terror. For Philip belonged to Jesus’s inner circle. Most likely they grew up together. In the painting, one sees horror beginning with Philip. And undulate across the table, ending with Judas.

• Share

Massive Summer Night’s Picnic-Diner en Blanc

Secret Location, Until the Beautiful People Arrive Adorned in White

Massive Summer Night’s Picnic–Diner en Blanc. Secret location, until the beautiful people arrive adorned in white at a large park or other open air setting. They dine in white chairs at tables draped in white tablecloths. Fresh white napkins are on display and often gorgeous white flower centerpieces. I knew nothing about it until last year when I accidentally crashed the massive celebration halfway through my usual run at nine or ten at night. With candles glowing and hanging lights adjusted for high spirits, I skipped and dipped my way through the throng of attendees. All kinds of couples enjoyed the night and each other. And dressed in white from head to toe, they all looked stunning, old, young, casual, or fantastic.

Pure White, No Cream, Beige, or Off-White at Diner en Blanc

Pure white, no cream, beige, or off-white–the rule includes plates and picnic baskets (although some opt for catered fare)–not sure about the wine. But even though I can’t drink wine, red would certainly be risky. Last year, the massive picnic in white, Diner en Blanc, spilled out from New York City’s Wagner Park, where the East River meets the Hudson, onto West Street and extended far along the pathway the esplanade all the way to the Museum of Jewish Heritage.

By that time at night women in strapless white satin dresses, fluid enough for dancing, and long white gloves all the way up their arms, seemed to move to their private music in time with lithe, towering men wearing white tails and white top hats. But even the less marvelous couples added their individual glory to the occasion.

So What Was I Doing at the Massive Summer Night’s Picnic?

What was I doing in my black running tights and compression top? That’s what a guard at a white velvet rope suspended between two white poles asked me after I dipped and skipped, wending my way to the end. I told him this was my usual running route to burn off excess adrenaline after writing (actually rewriting, but one flips into the other ). He accepted that but wanted to know how I gained entry. “I slipped in and kept moving.” The guard remained silent and I asked, “Will you let me out?” It took him a few seconds to decide yes, be gone!

This Year I Ran Into the Diner en Blanc at Rockefeller Park

This year I ran into the Diner en Blanc at Rockefeller Park, which is at the north end of the same vicinity. (In recent years the secret location for the Diner en Blanc has been at Brooklyn’s Prospect Park and midtown’s Bryant Park.) Anyway, at six-thirty it was still light out and I was circling my way to the grocery store for ginger and blueberries to go with our dinner, thrown together quickly inside our little apartment.

The crowd was beginning to arrive, despite oppressive heat and humidity. Because the Diner en Blanc had yet not begun, I dared to ask one of the less imposing men how one got invited. He came with a friend and said, “It helps to know someone.” I smiled. “Doesn’t it always?”

But, ultimately, the secret, massive summer night’s picnic aims to be inclusive. Those who attended the year before are invited again, and may suggest others, whose names go on waiting list one. Or, you can add your name to waiting list number two.

By the time I left the grocery store, the rain was already a torrent! Yet, the party did not disperse. People who prepare for the event know enough to check the weather forecast. White umbrellas all around!

The Tradition Harks Back Thirty Years, Beginning in Paris

The tradition harks back thirty years, beginning in Paris. Seventy cities now host the event, including Chicago, where I grew up.

• Share

Modern Beauty by Manet

Modern Beauty by Manet: the Art Institute of Chicago’s current exhibition of Edouard Manet’s last paintings. The modern beauty evident in these paintings focuses on his appreciation of women, and his style. Both of which were ahead of their time.

So, while we were in Chicago, celebrating my son’s wedding, my mother, Manny, and I spent part of an afternoon, taking them in. The art exhibition progresses from a famous boating scene to portraits of friends and patrons. The modern beauty on display refers in part to Manet’s paintings of one woman representing spring and another woman representing winter. Later in the exhibition, another modern beauty consists of a charcoal drawing of Edgar Allan Poe’s Annabel Lee lying fully dressed and prone on a seashore. She reaches for waves beyond her fingertips.

The perspective changes as the show leads the viewer closer to the artist’s end. In 1883, at fifty-one, Edouard Manet died of syphilis.

Confusing Claude Monet with Edouard Manet

Apparently people sometimes confuse Claude Monet and Edouard Manet. I’ve read this more than once. And while I consider myself a person who’s confused more often than most, I cannot recall ever being confused by the two artists. Obviously, their surnames are similar. They were both French. And they both lived and painted at the end of the nineteenth century. But their art strikes me as wildly different.

For me, this difference is visceral. Because Monet’s haystack paintings terrified me as a child. Claude—not Edouard!—painted twenty-five haystack paintings. And the Art Institute of Chicago owns six of them. During my childhood (and well beyond), encountering all six of those haystack paintings in a small, dark room was nightmarish. So that even now, I’m unable to appreciate the haystacks in their changing light. Or different seasons. Let alone the infinite, minuscule brush strokes. I recoil in fear at Monet. But I love Manet. However, I know very little about art, except what I see and sometimes feel–and so bow to the many accomplished artists and art lovers, who deem those infernal haystacks inspired and inspirational.

New Appreciation for Manet’s Modern Beauty

Born to a wealthy family, Manet enjoyed the friendship of most of that era’s famous artists and writers. In fact, they looked to him as a leader. But for a brief early success, his work was roundly rejected. The make-or-break Salon jury mocked his “playfulness.” Judges found his abrupt tonal transitions “appalling.” Finally, with this show, a 136 years after he died–Modern Beauty by Manet–critics hail his end-of-life paintings as moving, modern, beautiful, and intimate.

I’ve included the photo peach Manet’s peaches because in the museum, moving from room to room, they captivated me. Their delectable ripeness carries all the promise of sweet, sweet juice dripping from your mouth. And, I’ve included the white lilacs—because they’re lilacs. And in my experience, white lilacs smell the same the purple ones.

• Share

Three Chances to Get What He Said

At age six, he gave me three chances to get what he said. Sixteen years later, he married me. But at the time, Manny (not his real name and another story) struggled with a speech impediment. Our families were friends. I liked him on sight and tried hard to understand his every word. No doubt, he never actually said, “Three chances, no more.” But I still got it: If I still didn’t understand his words after his third try, he stalked off and wrote dirty words on little scraps of paper. And then chewed the paper into spit-balls. After which, he bombarded me with them. I liked that, too. And when I discovered the dirty words, I laughed.

While our parents and siblings were doing whatever they did, Manny and I hid in the attic and read books from his father’s childhood—first editions from the “Wizard of Oz” series, by Frank L. Baum, illustrations by John R. O’Neil, copyright from 1904-1934. Hidden in the attic, we alternated reading pages out loud. And, before long, I understood Manny better than almost anyone. By reading together, we achieved communication on many levels.

Later, as married writers, communication became a lifelong endeavor

Sixteen years later, married and both fiction writers, we were determined to get others to understand our words. Never easy, lasting communication had become much more complicated than two six-year-olds sharing secret stories. In fact, telling our different fictions in our own words was now a lifelong endeavor. And while terribly urgent, it often seemed impossible.

In “The Land of Oz,” the young hero Tip (a boy) transforms into Ozma (a girl), and speaks with  sweet diffidence.  

I hope none of you will care less for me than you did before. I’m just the same Tip you know—only—only—

’Only you’re different!’ said Pumpkinhead; and everyone though it was the wisest speech he ever made.’”

Literature asks the reader to make imaginative connections

Literature, even children’s literature, asks the reader to make imaginative connections, and sometimes, even leaps. And if you do that, in your unique way, you’ll imbue something of yourself into the story. A common analogy for this is dancing. The writer leads, an active reader follows “backwards and in heels.” It can be exhilarating. And, if the reader’s creative input involves one’s true self, the result over time may be lasting compassion, deeper understanding, and an original and sublime experience.

• Share

Magical Scents and Haunting Memories

Magical Scents and Haunting Memories–lilacs. I grew up in a house surrounded by lilacs. So every May, my mother arranged them in bunches around the house, but inside, from room to room, their fragrance didn’t alter my life. Outside, however, their ravishing smell enveloped me. I stepped through the front door, into the world, and the magical scents were all that registered. After I moment or two, I looked up and saw the dizzying tiny four-petal clusters of purple waving on tall green bushes. After school, their magical scents pulled me across the street.

Magical Scents and the Apex of Girlhood

When my husband and I first moved into this one bedroom apartment, I bought a large bunch of purple lilacs. And placed them on a window sill in the main room. Magic scents: The first memories are not haunting, exactly. The fragrance overwhelmed me. Suddenly, I was twelve years old. The smell sent me back to the apex of girlhood (a phrase that ultimately shapes my novel, “The Best of Crimes.”) At twelve, I believed I’d figured things out. Finally, I felt confident. Whatever challenge came my way–I felt ready. After all, I hadn’t suffered serious heartbreaks.

But that brief, confident year haunted me. And, within another moment, the pervasive, magical scent terrified me. I threw the lilacs away! Because returning to that apex signaled a fall from grace and everything else.

Haunting Memories

For me, the apex of girlhood lasted from when I was twelve until I was thirteen. (And at thirteen, I hadn’t even entered the throes of adolescence.) So, the tantalizing fragrance of magical lilacs that I bought for our new apartment sent me reeling. Back and forth from a memories of confidence into a lasting, haunting state.

For, at thirteen, conflicts beyond my imagination beset me. Naturally, I’d experienced loneliness and disbelief by then. Just not to where they became permanent! As states of mind, the size and power of loneliness and disbelief fluctuate, but I didn’t realize this for many, many years.

A few years ago, feeling brave, I bought lilacs from a staggeringly expensive grocery chain. That bunch gave off no scent. This year, I bought an intoxicating few cuttings from the bodega. The fragrance was so tantalizing that to temper their magical scents, I added a few counteractive peonies.

• Share

Irony, in Shakespeare’s Time, Not Ours

This weekend at Brooklyn’s Theatre for a New Audience, we saw “The Tragedy of Julius Caesar,” directed by Shana Cooper. The use of irony in the speeches intrigued me. This production of “Julius Caesar” struck me as immediate yet haunting

When the conspirators march off, chanting, “Let’s all cry Peace, Freedom, and Liberty!” they hit Peace hard. It resonated as its opposite. Whenever someone is too emphatic or indignant, or keeps repeating something, I tend to suspect their meaning.

In Mark Antony’s famous speech, he says, “Brutus is an honourable man” four times. The word “irony” pervades our everyday lives, although loosely. Irony in “Julius Caesar” is used rhetorically. So I looked up its definition as a literary device: Irony presents things as they seem on the surface when, in fact, they’re radically different. This often achieves a comic effect. Not here, and perhaps in general, not now. Now, irony fills the air we breathe–lies instead of truth.

In Shana Cooper’s production, the “Friends, Romans, Countrymen” wore pale, hard masks with leering expressions. And, they spoke like a mob. The stabbing of Caesar was savage and bloody. Mark Antony was muscular and smiling at first. Then calculating and intimidating. Honourable Brutus was bedeviled. Cassius was “lean and hungry.” Also, jittery. The choreographed fighting was rhythmic and inflamed. Every blow felt visceral. The play left no doubt: Powerful, posturing men (and some women) inflict violence and wage war to futile ends that never end.

• Share

Fun in Palliative Care, A Last Adventure

Fun in Palliative Care, A Last Adventure: Three years ago, my father died. But while in palliative care, he rallied enough to share one with me and my sister. This was surprising. Because just before his eighty-fifth birthday, he hit his head and could not swallow.

And because the therapy to retrain this vital reflex did not help, my mother spoke to his his doctor. What if he were your father?” she asked.

He answered that his job was to keep people alive. But certainly, no physician would want a loved one to suffer needles and proddings that caused only pain.

Always in charge, my father made his own wishes clear. No more interventions. So, my mother and I arranged for him to go into palliative care. From then on, no stopgaps would interfere with his “natural” death. Therefore, the IVs were removed.

After three day vigil, my mother had not slept, and my sister and I persuaded her to go and lie down. We would stay with our father.

And first thing, he wanted to go outside. The facility had a garden that was mostly slate. So I found a young male nurse, who liked my purple hair, to lift him into a wheelchair. We put his flat cap on his head and found him some sunglasses. Outside, in the sad little garden, he immediately spotted what looked like a tunnel at the far end. My sister hurried over there, and walked back decisively, shaking her head. No entrance.

A Last Adventure

“All right,” he said. “Kathleen, get us a table.” Two big circular, iron grate tables were bolted to the slate. But one was broken. And somehow, I managed to pry it loose and haul it over in front of my him.

“See that redhead in a dirndl?”

 I didn’t.

“Dad,” my sister said, “this isn’t a beer garden.” He pointed to a shadow and told me to ask the pretty redhead for a nice, cold pitcher. My sister whispered, “He’s hallucinating.”

“I couldn’t find the bartender, Dad. Or any beer. Let me wheel you around.”

Maybe. He might just be imagining. So I marched a few yards and stepped into the shade while my sister went back indoors.

Then I wheeled him around squares of spindly daffodils. Soon, my sister reported that a supervisor was contacting his doctor. My father could probably have a taste of beer at dinnertime.

“Dinnertime?” That made no sense–he was never eating dinner again! Why didn’t she ask them to speed things up? Once she was out of earshot, he asked me to wheel him over to the tunnel. Fun in palliative care!

No Escape

So I did. And, it really was a tunnel that took us beneath the building and into the facility’s parking lot. “Sorry, it’s not more exciting,” I said, moving his wheelchair out of the sun. “Our last adventure.”

When my sister finally found us, she was irritated with me. “They might not let us back in.”

“I doubt that.”

Nobody ignored my father for long.

Did I see the red car? my father asked.

I did.

“Can you hotwire it?”

 “I never learned how.”

After a pause, as if remembering my one driving lesson with him when he’d ordered me from his car for stepping on the gas without permission, he said, “Sorry about that.”

“It’s a dying art,” I said, “hotwiring cars.”

“Oh well,” he said, finally ready to return. A supervisor met us at the entrance with a medicine dropper of Haldol. My sister and I spent the rest of the day trying to keep him in bed. “Don’t sit so close,” he said. “Sit by the window.”

We did until he worked his feet halfway to the floor. Then we raced over and arranged his legs back inside the bed’s metal side-rails. Every few hours, he was given more Haldol, three doses in all.

Then my mother returned. So, time for my sister and me to go. His voice weakened further from the drug, my father thanked us.

“It was fun.”

• Share

My Mistake, Leonardo or Hamlet?

My mistake, Leonardo or Hamlet? It started with a happy burst of recognition. But at first, I made a mistake. Here’s what happened: Two years ago, I was writing about an actor playing Hamlet. At the same time, I was reading Leonardo da Vinci’s Notebooks. Then, two weeks ago, I was running around listening to hip-hop. Because I needed to use up surplus adrenaline that builds up whenever I’m writing fiction.

I don’t run every evening, although I do write from Monday to Friday. Sometimes, I walk. Or that’s what I thought–another mistake. My daughter in Oakland, CA asked me if I listened to podcasts or hip–hop on my “walks.” The answer? Hip-hop. “So you don’t walk. You dance.”

Perhaps, but not consciously. Except one evening, I “walked” past the basketball courts and watched a young man make a fabulous three-pointer. Then most of the guys on the court waved at me and did a little dance. Floss and/or hands in the air. I waved back, certain they weren’t mocking me, but smiling at the purple-haired auntie.

So, I raced around, bridging my fictional world with the real one. When I heard Kari Faux’s “Lost (Intro).” And one line made me jump. I knew it but for a moment felt confused. Leonardo da Vinci or Hamlet? My mistake hovered a second above Leonardo. But within a beat–of course! It belongs to Hamlet.

Listen to Kari Faux in YouTube Above

Listen to the Kari Faux say Hamlet’s line in short YouTube above. I’m sure you’ll know it!

• Share