It Sneaks In

A woman in my Mahjong group tested positive for covid. She sends out an email. I sigh. This was bound to happen. It’s not like we haven’t paid attention to the virus in this retiree-dominated part of Texas. We’ve donned masks and washed our hands; but the bottom line is that none of us has a say over how many people someone else comes in contact with, or how often they socialize, or whether they wear masks or choose not to. Collectively, all our grown children who live elsewhere lecture us about being careful. We assure them that we’re being extremely cautious, when all the while we’re out dining and partying—all the way until nine o’clock at night sometimes! We’re busy here. David and I went day-drinking at a vineyard with friends last weekend. And David meets weekly with the guys at a local brewery. Truthfully, the only way our lifestyles have changed is that when we gather socially covid’s joined our other topics of conversation.

The likelihood of me catching covid from my Mahjong friend is practically zero. She was playing at another table, at least ten feet away from me. And I was sitting right in front of an open door.

However, she did stop by the table to talk for a few seconds. And someone who was at her table later joined us. Does this constitute exposure? The common view seems to be that if you’ve been exposed you should quarantine until you can get tested. I mention the situation to David, who isn’t happy. His social life is much busier than mine and he takes all his commitments seriously. 

“Go get tested,” he responds. 

“What a hassle,” I say. 

He looks up the local testing places and tells me that a clinic on the highway takes walk-ins. 

So I go on over there, but there’s a sign out front that says if you’re there for covid testing, you should stay outside and call the posted number—which I do. And over the phone I’m told that they don’t have an opening until early next week, which is the opposite of what walk-in means. Disgusted, I blow it off and come home. 

But the next morning my nose is stopped up and my throat is itchy. This doesn’t necessarily mean I’m sick, because I have allergies and it’s that time of year. 

Furthermore, I tend to vicariously experience characteristics and symptoms. If I hear someone has an ulcer, I get stomach pains. I once caught a brow tic from someone who had a twitching eyebrow. I have a friend who walks flat-footed with her toes pointed outward and I’ve been told that when I walk alongside her I, too, walk like a duck. 

Is this trait indicative of hypochondria or self-absorption? Is it because I over-empathize or because I have an overly active imagination? Or is it that my mind has no control over my body; or that my mind has too much control over my body? 

I don’t want to take a stopped-up nose seriously—until I realize that I have to because it would be unbearable if my carelessness caused someone to become sick. But to be honest, if they said on the news that the primary symptom of covid was an itchy armpit, then my armpit would be itching. I go to find David. 

“It’s probably nothing,” I tell him. “But we’re going to have to quarantine.”

He starts making calls to cancel his obligations. 

My appointment for rapid testing is on Tuesday morning, so I should be free after that. Meanwhile, we’re stuck at home; and sadly this is my month off from drinking. Also, while we have groceries enough to last us until I’m cleared, David has no ice cream, which makes him cranky. 

Since we can’t go out anyway, we decide to refinish the deck. Power washing and wire brushing in the morning. In the afternoon I scoot along on my butt, painting the edges. Next, David will go after the middle section and stairs with the roller. 

Having finished my part of the project, I realize that I still have hours of the day to kill. I don’t like the book I’m reading—Florence Adler Swims Forever. Because it’s a light-hearted title I assumed it would be a lighthearted book. It’s not. Spoiler—Florence dies in the first chapter. This author need to consider that a somber subject can be written in a way that doesn’t make the reader want to pull her hair out. Reluctant to return to unrelenting Jewish mourning, it occurs to me to write a blog; and though I don’t have anything to say, it’s my gift that I can write eight hundred and seventy words about absolutely nothing any day of the week, even on a Sunday dominated by covid. 

Just to let you know, I checked on my Mahjong buddy and she’s doing fine, minimal symptoms. Her husband’s diagnosis was accompanied by pneumonia, so that’s more serious, but she says he’s feeling better. I understand this is an up-and-down disease, so I will keep them in my prayers.  

Also, FYI: against the norm, I’ve decided that “covid” doesn’t deserve to be capitalized any more than “flu” or “measles.” Writer’s prerogative. 

David takes painting seriously. The weather’s beautiful this time of year.

The finished deck. Much better.

The Call of Colorado

There are two reasons why Texans run up to Colorado now and then. One is the surroundings. Though at times our part of Texas is lovely, the Rockies are majestic and stunning all the time. A different landscape can be uplifting when your own backyard is flat and brown, and the air is so hot and heavy and full of allergens that breathing isn’t pleasant. During a Colorado summer the mountains rise dramatically and are covered with green; and the air is crisp and cold and clean.  

The second attraction is something we don’t discuss with our neighbors or even our friends because sometimes it’s prudent to be blind to what others are getting up to. Yet, considering that eighty percent of the people I know from this area have run up to Colorado this summer, well, the conclusion is undeniable. And if you don’t know what I’m talking about, ask a Texan.

We stay in Avon, a square half-mile composed of a few streets broken by three traffic circles. Condominiums border every street and round-about. Each traffic circle looks the same. Each condo complex looks the same. At one point we travel from circle to circle, driving around and around for what seems like hours, confused about which exit off of which circle will lead us to the grocery store. We were given instructions and it should be simple. It’s preposterous that we’re lost in this tiny town and I find it so funny that I laugh until tears flow. 

The resort we stay in is quite posh, with a floral aroma wafting through that is, upon entry, so inviting that it makes me long to bathe in their signature scent. Our place has two bedrooms, both with king-sized beds, a huge kitchen, and two living areas. Seriously, though, who decorates these things? The pictures on the walls are so deliberately inoffensive that I’m offended. And a misguided designer has deduced that the place will feel more like home if impractical items are placed about. A three-foot tall tree sculpted from dry reeds stands beside a fireplace. Two shiny vases with womanly shapes tower from one of the mantles. There’s so much fake greenery in straw baskets that it makes me think someone bought out a Tuesday Morning. The first thing I do upon entering is gather the tchotchkes and tuck them in the back of a closet. 

What effect has Covid had on our getaway? Well, the first noticeable difference is that our comfort is no longer paramount. For instance, maid service is no longer provided. This means that people who used to be cleaners now no longer have jobs—and I can’t see how having a masked and gloved maid come in to change the sheets, resupply towels, and clean counters puts them or us in any danger. The onsite restaurant is closed, as are the spa, pool, lounge areas, and rec rooms. Also, if you want to use the workout facility you must make an appointment. 

While we’re told by the front counter, and then at the concierge’s desk, that the changes are about safety, it’s mostly about dollars. Because people haven’t been traveling, the industry has taken a hit. I understand that; but I resent being told that the cutbacks are about one thing when they’re really about something else. Also, my life experience has taught me that once an amenity is removed it most often isn’t restored.

Another absurd Covid consequence is the elevator rule. No sharing. Only a single person or family is allowed in the elevator at the same time. This makes for some awkward encounters. We’re on the top floor, so when we take the elevator down anybody below us who wants to get to the garage or lobby steps forward expectantly when the doors open; but, seeing that it’s occupied, they reverse rapidly, as though the elevator’s flooded with Covid; then, squinting over their masks and with forced good cheer, they say they’ll grab the next one—which may not happen for a while, depending on how many folks from the top are descending. 

I have a hard time not taking these refusals to enter my space personally. I give people reasons not to like me all the time and I’m okay with that, but I don’t like it when strangers reject me for no reason. In fact, this makes me reject the people who reject me; and I find myself feeling hostile toward every one of those people who shrink from the elevator because I’m on it. And by the way, this elevator rule is a dictum that I’ve not seen written or heard spoken. Someone at some point made it up and it became a thing people did—a baseless, self-perpetuating, and inexplicable reaction to inaudible whispers. 

When I get back to Marble Falls, I go to a building—masks required—where I must take an elevator. After I step in, two other people enter behind me. They’re not concerned that they’re joining someone else. Why, they don’t seem to be afraid of me at all. No one’s cowering. No one’s eyes are accusing me of carrying and passing a disease. And then, on the way down, another couple of people come in after me—and then a man holds the doors for a fourth person to enter. 

Bizarrely, incongruently, this takes place in a hospital—a hospital, where you should be able to trust their safety protocols. And this makes me think—and I must be a genius because it’s obvious no one’s thought of this before—that there should be a sensible standard for what’s safe and what’s not, and that it would be helpful for places like a resort to receive accurate information about what’s appropriate to our current situation and what’s unnecessary and, frankly, just plain stupid. 

Always lovely.

Why? It’s ugly. And I don't even know what to call it.

Evening dresses on invisible bodies.

Independence Pass. David has his hat string in his mouth because the icy wind’s blowing hard and he doesn’t want to lose his adventure hat. Our ten minutes there gave me enough winter to last the rest of my life.

What's next?

For the last week I’ve been doing the final editing on a novel, then yesterday I sent it off to my agent. 

And this morning when I settled in front of my computer my mind was as blank as the stupid white screen I was staring at.  

The book is done. It lives elsewhere now. So what’s next? 

Usually when I sit down to write these few paragraphs, it’s because I have a concern on my mind, a random thought to share, or something to rant about. Well, I do have a rant in me, which is that here in our cul-de-sac several of my neighbors who are ordinarily sane have put Trump signs in their yards; and signs aren’t allowed in here and they all know it. Anarchy. It’s an in-your-face move. Defensive aggression. So bound by hubris are they that they’re unable to admit to their mistake, so they doggedly stick to their path. I have to let it go. I can’t fix everybody; though I do wish I could hide in a comfortable quiet closet for the next couple of months. 

By the time I’ve finished a book, I’ve read it through at least a hundred times. I’ve run spelling and grammar checks and I’ve analyzed each sentence, always asking—is there a better word? A more amusing slant? Have I achieved exactly the nuance I’m looking for? I’m obsessively thorough in my editing—and I hate that if I were to run through the whole thing again, I’d find a few errors—an open quotation, a dropped letter, a misusage or a misspelling. How is it that spell check misses a misspelled word? I don’t know, but it happens. 

This book was longer than my usual—a hundred and fourteen thousand words. Normally I top off at around eighty-three thousand. The reason for the length is that the narrative is in third person, which allows for more characters, which, in turn, means more perspectives, and therefore, more words. And the perspectives are all intricate and intriguing—adults mired in indecision or rage or fear, children of all ages, suspended, waiting for their adults to take action. 

From the first sentence to the last, it took nine months, writing two hours a day. Do I ever skip a day? No, I do not. It’s the German in me. And during this gestation I was unable to put the characters away—their voices were in my head the whole time. It’s like this with every book. No wonder I forget what I’m saying in the middle of a sentence. No wonder I lose my keys and get lost driving through town. 

I’m a fast typist and the work goes quickly—about two weeks per chapter. I do a lot of back-and-forthing in the manuscript, checking to see which character has what information and verifying names and descriptions. Constancy is paramount and it can be tricky. For instance, there’s a minor character named Kate, mentioned maybe fifteen times, and a few of those times I called her Kay—an easy mistake to make, an easy mistake to fix. But if I hadn’t been vigilant, it could’ve slipped by. 

David has suggested many times that rather than scrolling around trying to verify a name or description, I should make notes listing the characters’ separate traits and plot lines. Yeah, referring to a directory of sorts would be a more organized way to go about things. He can do it that way when he writes his own damn book.

The part of writing that I enjoy most and where I’ve been told I excel is dialogue. Here’s a snippet from the first chapter:          

“A divorce isn’t the same as dying.” Louisa, in a whiny voice. “It’s inappropriate to distribute your possessions to your heirs just because you’re splitting up.”

“I’m sorry.” A disappointing absence of interest. Cindy doesn’t seem to grasp the significance. 

 “Forty-two years they were married. They put us through hell as kids, with their screaming and their silences and their separations. Why now, why not then?”

 “How upsetting for you.” 

Said sarcastically. The lack of concern isn’t just an intimation, it’s an insult. This is a bizarrely inequitable exchange. When something goes awry in Cindy’s life, Louisa’s right there churning out indignation on her behalf. Yet now, during her difficult time, all her friend offers is a single insincere platitude. 

“What’s going on with you?” Louisa asks, rightfully irritated. 

“You’re forty years old.” Contemptuously. “It’s not like your life will be ruined if your parents aren’t together anymore. And, oh boo-hoo, you’re getting Emrick Mansion out of the deal.” 

Oh. This about the house.

Pretty good, right? And do you see how useful the dialogue is? It moves the story along, reveals the characters’ personalities, and, in this instance, introduces the heart of the story, Emrick Mansion. 

So. As I said, that’s done. And now I think I’ll follow the lead of my fellow Texans and head up to Colorado for a while. The cooler weather and majestic views will likely guide me to another story that needs to be written. 

Good-bye Louisa and Henshaw, Callie and Don, Mason and Stacy and Sloan! I’ll miss you.

What I Read

Over the last couple of years I’ve been invited to give talks at libraries and to readers’ groups about creative choices and how I work. At the end of the talks, during the Q&A, I’m usually asked what I like to read. Because it’s what I write, fiction is what I prefer. It’s important to see what others in the field are doing. As to genres, I explore them all. 

Friends often push their favorites at me; and just as I often I wonder if it’s because misery wants company. For instance, several women over the years have told me that my literary education is incomplete until I’ve read (and blitheringly adored) Love in the Time of Cholera. So a year ago I picked it up. Oh dear God, what a slog; what a yawn. Because of course I wanted to be perceived as literate, I forced myself to stick it out ’til the end; but I don’t know a single person I dislike enough to recommend it to, which makes me question the affection of those who recommended it to me. 

As to the books I’ve read and enjoyed in the last couple of years, I’m making a list, which I’m breaking into categories—literary, meaning relevant to the human condition; and entertaining, which is self-explanatory. The order is as they appear on my Kindle—it doesn’t have anything to do with level of liking. Honestly, I’ve enjoyed them all. Here it is:

LITERARY:

Valentine by Elizabeth Wetmore. The background is the oil boom in the Midland/Odessa area. The plot is based on women going through their dramas—death, unhappy marriages, abuse, alcoholism. While the connected stories aren’t unexpected, the writing is lyrical and evocative. I never thought I’d get shivers reading prose about the dry ground and barbed wire in West Texas. Thought-provoking, intense, not merry. 

Trust Exercise by Susan Choi. Won the National Book Award. Of interest is that it’s centered around the School of the Performing Arts in Houston. Though the author doesn’t identify it by name, I recognized it, which was kind of fun. The premise is how, in pursuit of “art,” the social and ethical lines between instructors and students are likely to become blurred. Another one that’s thought-provoking and not merry. 

Nothing to See Here by Kevin Wilson. Well, this was unusual. The story about a young woman who’s hired to be the nanny to a couple of rich children who occasionally burst into flames. Not long, easy to read, humorous with an applicable life lesson. 

The World that We Knew by Alice Hoffman. I love her writing and have read everything she’s ever written. I would’ve thought twice, though, if I’d read the blurb. I guess she felt she wouldn’t be taken seriously until she conquered the Holocaust novel. I’ve read so many books about the Holocaust that I assumed there simply wasn’t anything left to be said—however, it’s Hoffman’s style to veer from reality, and the misery of the Holocaust takes a backseat when golems and heartbroken storks come in to play. 

Milkman by Anna Burns. Booker Prize 2018. Told in first person, spunky character, narrated in an odd dialect that’s meant to indicate “elsewhere.” Set in an oppressive society where factions are constantly fighting, friends rat on friends, beauty is elusive, and suspicion is the primary emotion. Depressing but ultimately uplifting. The writing stunned me. Wow.

There There by Tommy Orange. The subject is Native Americans. It explores the backgrounds of several characters before and during a national powwow. The quality of the writing is superb, but I was sad for days after finishing it. It will, however, make you think about the current lives and mindsets of our native population, which is definitely worth consideration.  

A Gentleman in Moscow by Amor Towles. After the Bolshevik revolution a young count is arrested for writing a seditious poem. Receiving special treatment because of his aristocratic background, he’s sentenced to never setting foot outside of a luxurious hotel for the remainder of his life. The novel is about his adventures, his friends, and his loves, all set in the closed-off environment. Easy to read, skillfully written, uplifting. 

Lincoln in the Bardo by George Saunders. This is not easy. In fact, an interpreter would help. But it’s intriguing enough to make it worth the effort. In a nutshell: Lincoln’s son has died and is hanging out in purgatory with a bunch of bizarre souls while Lincoln mourns tombside. 

LaRose by Louise Erdrich. Anything by Erdrich is worth reading, but she doesn’t tell lighthearted stories. Her subject is always the Ojibwa Indians. LaRose is based on the accidental shooting of a child and the tribal tradition of the man who took the life offering his own son as a replacement. It was painful. 

ENTERTAINMENT:

The Extraordinary Life of Sam Hell by Robert Dugoni. Actually not fiction, but enjoyable and inspirational. Based on the life of a kid who’s born with no pigment in his irises, which causes his eyes to look red and prompts others to call him Devil Boy. His mother was a hero. If you’re down, this is the book for you.

City of Girls by Elizabeth Gilbert. Sometimes it’s just fun to read a story. This is about the experiences of a seamstress/costumer during the early days of Broadway. Salacious, compelling, well written. I guess you could find depth if that’s your goal.

Sacrifice by Sharon Bolton. Thriller with a twist. I have four of her novels on my Kindle and they’re all thrillers with a twist. I’ve enjoyed each of them, so if you like the genre and you’re looking for a new author to follow, give her a try. British, so her writing is, you know, from “over there.” 

Before the Fall  by Noah Hawley. A definitively human story about the aftermath of a plane crash and the resulting relationship between the two survivors—a good man and the child he manages to rescue. Easy to read, not insultingly shallow, satisfying ending.

Pretty Things by Janelle Brown. For a tale about a thief, her con-artist boyfriend, and their victim, this was surprisingly stylishly written. Set primarily in a mansion on Lake Tahoe, it  deals with the inherent angst between haves and have-nots. Until the last few chapters I honestly had no idea where it was going. A triumphant ending and an endearing main character. 

We Need to Talk About Kevin by Lionel Shriver. This one will stay with me forever. Over the years I’ve waffled between blaming and feeling compassion for the parents of mass murdering minors. Well, this gives an intriguing slant. A harrowing page-turner. I was all “Make it stop!” through the whole thing. But it made me think.  

You by Caroline Kepnes. What’s most interesting to me, as a writer, is that the whole novel is written in second person. Very accusatory, like it’s the victim’s fault that the guy went crazy and locked her in a cage in the basement. A fast easy read. 

Circe by Madeline Miller. A fresh and sympathetic retelling of an old tale. The inspired quality of the writing was unexpected. Turning those pigs into pigs—good for you, Circe, good for you.

Beartown by Fredrik Backman. If ever a writer set out to write a US bestseller, it’s this guy, who’s actually Swedish. He deliberately included every current hot American issue—local politics, sports, rape, coming out gay in a town dominated by manly men. Oh, it’s absolutely contrived. But it worked and I loved it. If you haven’t read it I guarantee you’ll enjoy it. 

So, there it is. This is less than a tenth of what I’ve read in the last two years, but I also read a lot of crap that I’ll never admit to. Each of these books have added to my life in one way or another and that’s why I’ve recommended them. Happy reading!

A few of my favorites. As a humorist, my own writing has been heavily influenced by these authors. If you like them you’ll like me.