This week, I did something I hadn’t done in a really, really long time. I began work on a new novel. Not a media tie-in. Not work-for-hire set in someone else’s world. This novel is mine through and through. And it felt great.
So far, I haven’t gotten a lot written. I never do at the outset of a new project. It usually takes me a couple of weeks to find my pace and start churning out pages the way I like to. On the first day, though, I got a thousand words written. Good words. Words I like. Long words, short words, fat words, skinny words, words that climb on rocks, yes, my friends, even words with chickenpox….
Seriously, it felt wonderful. I have found myself thinking about this new book all the time, daydreaming ideas for descriptive passages and plot twists even when I’m far from my computer. I can’t tell you how long it’s been since I did that. At least a couple of years.
No, this is not a continuation of any series you’ve read before. It’s something entirely new, utterly different. I won’t say more than that for now.
I am sure that my enthusiasm for the project will wax and wane, as it does with all projects. There will come moments when the writing is nothing but a slog. There will be days when I curse the book and its characters, when I want nothing more than to chuck the whole thing. That is part of the process. Even my favorite books piss me off at times. I have never written anything that was a joy start to finish. Writing just isn’t that easy. To my knowledge, no artistic pursuit is. Nothing worth doing is.
And life will get in the way now and then. That happens, too. Just yesterday, I spent the whole day dealing with homeowner stuff — annoying, distracting, ultimately, I expect, very expensive. That is part of being a writer as well. Stuff gets in the way.
The story remains, though. The world and plot and characters will be there when I get back to them. They’ll be impatient, miffed at me for leaving them in stasis for a day or a week or whatever. A good book, though, stays fresh, even during the interruptions. This one is no different.
Yes, my hiatus from writing was a byproduct of my grieving process. My return to writing is not an indication that my grief is spent. It never will be. I will grieve my darling Alex for the rest of my life. As I’ve said before, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Grief is an expression of love, and my love for her was limitless. But she wouldn’t want to be the reason I stopped writing forever, any more than she’d want me to give up on happiness or love or life because she’s gone.
Writing is part of who I am, and after a long absence I feel that I am ready to be me again, for good or ill. Alex would approve, I believe.
So, I ‘m back at it, and I will keep you updated as I work my way through this newest manuscript.
Enjoy the rest of your week. And Happy New Year.
Our beloved older daughter would have been thirty years old today.
Later we realized that the name was too small to contain her, too simple to encompass all that she was, all that she would grow to be. She might have been the smallest in her class, but she was smart as hell and personable, with a huge, charismatic personality. She might have been the smallest on her teams, but she was fast and savvy and utterly fearless. On the soccer pitch and in the swimming pool, she was fierce and hard-working. Size didn’t matter. She might have been the smallest on stage, but she danced with passion and joy and grace, and, when appropriate, with a smile that blazed like burning magnesium.
One time, in a soccer match against a hated rival, a player from the other team, a huge athlete nearly twice Alex’s size, grew tired of watching Alex’s back as she sped down the touchline on another break. So she fouled Alex. Hard. Slammed into her and sent her tumbling to the ground. I didn’t have time to worry about my kid. Because Alex bounced up while the ref’s whistle was still sounding, and wagged a finger at the girl. “Oh, no you don’t,” that finger-wag said. “You can’t intimidate me.”
She was effortlessly cool, like her uncle Bill — my oldest brother. And she had a wicked sense of humor. She was brilliant and beautiful. She loved to travel. She loved music and film and literature. She was passionate in her commitment to social justice. She adored her younger sister. And she was without a doubt the most courageous soul I have ever known.
When Alex was three years old, Nancy took a sabbatical semester in Quebec City, at the Université Laval. I stayed in Tennessee, where I was overseeing the construction of what would become our first home. Once Nancy found a place for them to live, I brought Alex up to her and helped the two of them settle in. In part, that meant finding a day-school for Alex so that Nancy could conduct her research. We put her in a Montessori school that seemed very nice, but was entirely French-speaking. The first morning, Alex was in tears, scared of a place she didn’t know, among people she could scarcely understand. But we knew she would love it eventually, and as young parents, we had decided this was best. So we explained to her as best we could that we would be back in a few hours, that the people there would take good care of her, and that this was something we needed for her to do. I will never forget walking away from the school, with tiny Alex standing at the window, tears streaming down her face as she waved goodbye to us. And I remember thinking then, “She is the bravest person I know.” Remember, Alex, all of three years old, didn’t speak a word of French!!
Her dauntlessness served her well on the pitch and in the pool, on stage and in the classroom. It fed an adventuresome spirit that took her to Costa Rica for a semester in high school, to the top of Mount Rainier with a summer outdoor program, to a successful four years at NYU, to Germany for part of her sophomore year in college, to Spain for all of her junior year in college, and on countless side-trips all over Europe.
She was, in short, remarkable. I loved her more than I can possibly say. I also admired her deeply. To this day, I push myself to do things that might make me uncomfortable or afraid by telling myself, “Alex would do it, and she’d want me to do it as well.”
I kept it wrapped up even after we returned to the States. My plan was to open it once we were in our new house, which is what I did. It now sits in my office window, catching the late afternoon sun. And it reminds me of so much. That trip to Italy, which marked the beginning of my personal recovery from the trauma of losing Alex. That day in Venice, which was gloriously fun. The conversation with the kind shopkeeper, whose love for and pride in his father was palpable throughout our exchange. More, that little glass piece is an image of winter, and it sparkles like a gem when the sun hits it. It reminds me that even after a long cold winter, a time of grief and pain, there is always new life and the joy of a new spring.
A cliché, to be sure. But as with so many clichés, it’s rooted in truth.
This [see the photo above] will soon be our new home. It is in New York’s Hudson Valley, near Albany, on six-plus acres of beautiful land, complete with gardens, fruit trees, and a small pond. More important, it is maybe twenty minutes from my brother and sister-in-law, is equally close to one of my dearest friends and his partner, and is within easy drives of many other friends and family.