When Thinking Feels New

When Thinking Feels New

Hannah Arendt wrote, “Loving life is easy when you are abroad. Where no one knows you and you hold your life in your hands all alone, you are more master of yourself than at any other time.” I’m finding this to be true in ways I never would have expected, but I don’t believe we need radical departures to achieve something of this state of mind.

In her novel, Go Went Gone, Jenny Erpenbeck writes that Richard, newly released from an academic career, “. . . has time – plain and simple. Time to travel, people say. To read books. Time to listen to music. He doesn’t know how long it will take for him to get used to having time.” He’s uncomfortable. All those open days. But in those open hours he finds a self that has been waiting. Richard is more complex, more generous, and far more human and connected than he dreamed.

But waiting until retirement for life to feel true is as terrible as waiting for opportunities to be overseas. Yes, both gave me permission to allow all that was extraneous and distracting to fall away. What I didn’t know is that I didn’t need permission.

Gordon Mennega recently recounted the experience of a colleague who has found a way to balance professional duties with much more contemplative time. The result, in Gordon’s words, is that thinking feels almost new.

The thinking feels almost new. That’s exactly it. Grounded but fresh.

I’ve discovered that my work has been keeping secrets from me. Suddenly I see this novel draft clearly and what all those unfinished short stories are asking to become. If I’d fully understood the true cost of distraction and bedevilment prior to the major life changes I undertook last year, I like to think I would have taken advantage sooner.

But I celebrate. Loving life fully instead of only bits and pieces is better late than never.

 

 

 

We’re Not Stupid!

We’re Not Stupid!

 

The Harlem River Bridge was open and stuck. The Metro-North train I was taking to Grand Central for the shuttle to JFK and my flight back to Portugal was, according to announcements, delayed “indefinitely” while waiting for “the Army Corps of Engineers to figure out how to close it.” Minutes ticked by. The hour of cushion I had given myself dissolved.

We weren’t parked completely between stops. The last car sat beside the Fordham station platform. One by one, and then in droves, people left in search of options.

While discussing my own choices with a conductor – a taxi, but taxis rarely stop there; Uber, but my Portugal phone had already refused to call Uber; the subway with a stop two blocks west, but I’m unfamiliar with the Bronx, had luggage, hours and hours of travel ahead, and rarely took the subway even when I lived in New York — I said, “I won’t be doing subways.” A nearby woman pounced, eyes flashing, her voice a bark: “We’re not stupid!” she told me. “It’s two blocks.”

Perhaps I’d once been accosted in a subway, or had been trapped, or fallen asleep to find myself in Brooklyn instead of Broadway and Lafayette. Perhaps a medical condition precluded my walking any blocks or descending and ascending stairs with two carry-ons. I travel lightly, but not empty-handed.

But no. No thought to any other possibility other than, “We’re not stupid!” implying that while she wasn’t, I was.

I left the train to take a look at the street – a stray taxi perhaps? A flash of inspiration? – hoping it didn’t leave without me before I’d figured something out.

Three women stood just outside the station door, one twenty-something, one thirty-something, one eighty-something. I overheard the thirty-something say “Grand Central.”

“Grand Central?” I said. “You’re headed to Grand Central?”

“Yes. Uber. Want to join us?”

“Yes!”

So, the four of us, capable and competent and resourceful, climbed into an Uber car so small there weren’t enough seat belts to head into Manhattan. The older woman was joining friends for a play. The two younger ones had meetings with clients. And I, of course, was travelling,

Not one of us stupid.

Perhaps the woman on the train believes she’s empowered, and that it’s her job to empower me and any woman she encounters who isn’t exhibiting her, ah, strength. Perhaps she thinks she represents a proper sort of feminism.

Whatever her reasoning, I reject it. And happily embrace women who join forces.

 

 

 

 

The Spoken Word

The Spoken Word

I’ve never opened a book without a pen. Audio books? Never! What would I do with my hands? My annotations are an elaborate system that fill most pages. My son calls them the rantings of a mad women. Maybe so. I don’t care. I am madly in love with my books.

But I’m suddenly in love with audio books, too. Having given myself time and permission to listen, I’m hearing so much more.

The change came while working with Talece Brown on Vanishing Point. We spent hours (with her on the West Coast and me in Connecticut, these hours were often in the middle of my night) deciding on characters’ voices and how to convey the novel’s core. Talece brought new dimensions to the characters I thought I knew so well, not only through dialogue but with a beautiful portrayal of the scenery of their inner and outer lives. She saw my story as a movie, and her vision shines through.

As we approached the release date, I finally heard friends singing the praises of audio books, how they enable them to make use of what could feel like lost time, commuting or doing chores. A few even say they’d never ‘read’ if it weren’t for audio books on their smartphones.

In a recent Facebook post, George Saunders recognized some readers, unable to figure out Lincoln in the Bardo’s format, had given up. I hadn’t given up, but intrigued by its 150-plus voices, his was my first purchase. I was rewarded. People came alive. Descriptions sung. Tough passages became crystal clear.

At the end of long reading and writing days, I don’t want to pick up another book but neither do I want to stop working. I’d been wanting to revisit classics, but who has the time with such steep stacks of new books? Enter audio books. Wharton, Woolf (Nicole Kidman’s To the Lighthouse!), D.H. Lawrence. And now I’m sampling new releases to decide which to read and which to hear. Which ones are calling you?

Finally, a revelation. About limitations. The limitation of having only my voice in my head, only my interpretations, my emphases, my biases. Listening to books by authors I’ve read more than once, I’ve heard – for the first time – lines and whole paragraphs I’d skipped over that are not only interesting, sometimes stunning, but crucial.

We writers can become more aware of rhythms in our own work by listening to the pulses of others’ being read out loud.

I’m not likely to join the ranks of audio-book junkies, but . . . while writing this . . . downloaded two more. Naturally, I hope you’ll give Vanishing Point a try:  http://amzn.to/2CB1Lv6

Wishing you joyous celebrations. And a happy exploration of the spoken word!

 

Illus: Google Images

 

 

Better Late Than Never

Never in a hundred years did I think I’d be singing the praises of audio books. A quick take on my transformation is on today’s Necessary Madness blog post, “The Spoken Word.” My publisher would yell at me if I didn’t ask you to sample the audio from Talece Brown for Vanishing Point: http://amzn.to/2De7wQw

Paperback for VP or Connected Underneath (published under Linda Legters) would also be just fine! http://amzn.to/2kNY8e8