Missing My Muse

Feb 232021
 

Here’s what I’ve noticed after a year of relative lock-down: Few people seem happy about it. Sure, I know people who prefer texts to calls, online classes to sweaty studios, food delivery to crowded stores. Most people, though, are going stir crazy. They are feeling crowded, limited, and maybe even homicidal after living cheek by jowl with spouses, parents and restless children.

Quarantine life should be tailor-made for me. I live alone and have for more of my life than I care to admit. It may not be the life I wanted, but it’s one I own. I’ve gotten good at living it. I understand the difference between lonely and alone and can adjust to either. Believe me, I appreciate the absence of pressure, the luxury of solitude, the privilege of quiet time to think and room to breathe.

Besides, I have my dog. And my muse. Although she’s been absent lately.

I’m an author, which is to say, my identity and sense of purpose are wrapped up in my ability and my need to get my thoughts into a readable form and out into the world. The present circumstances would seem an ideal time to create content.

Yet I’m stuck. Unwilling, uninspired, digging for feeling, reaching for words.

This is more than writers’ block. It feels more existential. What’s it all about? Who cares? Why should I voluntarily put myself in front of this cold gray machine and try to enter random thoughts into it?

My muse has left the building.

Maybe I’ve misjudged the effect of so much isolating, avoiding, hiding away, stepping warily into public, limiting in-person contact, eschewing any physical contact. Maybe it’s drained me in ways I wasn’t expecting. Zoom, it seems, isn’t always ideal for observing, much less interacting.

Instead of experiencing the flow that comes from being productive, I’m obsessed with how slowly time is moving. I used to write several hours a day. Now I’m lucky if I can work half that long. I look at the clock and marvel that it’s only eleven o’clock in the morning. I wonder when I can take lunch, or whether a nap is in order, notwithstanding I was in bed for nine hours (albeit restlessly) the night before. I count the hours until I can crawl back under the warm covers.

I thought I’d accepted that quarantine would last this long (has it really been a year?). Perhaps I failed to understand how that would feel. Was I more social in my previous life than I realized? Did I depend on neighborhood gatherings, coffee with friends, a random evening out? Do I need human contact more than I want to admit?

Well, yes, as it turns out. People in all their imperfections, are the featured players in my writing. Technology has been invaluable in bringing me news of the world, as it is. It doesn’t let me read faces or hear tone.

There are tricks to summoning an absent muse. I’m trying them all as I struggle with my third mystery in a series about an intrepid female investigator (is there any other kind?) I still don’t know how the story will unfold. Instead, I try to get a sense of where I’m going by writing scenes of dialogue. You know, the kind people have when they’re face to face across a table or even at a crime scene. When they’re talking in real life.

Sometimes I can almost feel my muse. She’s hovering, more an observer than an interactive part of my process. It’s okay. I understand her hesitation. No one feels like working right now. But we muddle through.

For now, I keep my seat in the chair and my eyes on the screen for as long as I can. I don’t want my my muse to lose faith in me. After all, spring is around the corner. Vaccines are available to the lucky and the persistent. Herd immunity is the new mantra. I’ve got babies to kiss, friends to hug, and words to write. Onward.

Four New Mysteries to Savor

Oct 182020
 

I’m a mystery writer and I’m a mystery reader, too. That doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy other genres. I love world-building science fiction (NK Jemisin) and literary fiction (Anne Patchett) as well as select biographies.

My reading list, though, mainly consists of mysteries. While I like to encounter new writers, I have my favorite writers whose reputations are secure, whose skills are legendary, and whose stories never fail to entertain. I take my inspiration from these favorites. Among those at the very top of their game are the four below, all of whom have released new books in the last few months.

A PRIVATE CATHEDRAL by James Lee Burke

Burke is author of the mesmerizing Dave Robicheaux series. Set in Louisiana, the novels are odes to the raw splendor of the region and the raw brutality of life on the edges. Robicheaux is an on-again, off-again cop, a barely reformed drunk who shares with his imbibing buddy Clete Purcell, a fatalistic view of the world that directs their often-vicious response to injustice. In A PRIVATE CATHEDRAL, Burke has placed his story in the vague recent past, which handily fudges the issue of how old Robicheaux, a Vietnam war veteran, might actually be in 2020. It works. The book is bittersweet, the descriptive passages achingly beautiful, the action merciless, violent and swift-moving. The experience is heart-pounding.

THE GOOD DAUGHTER by Karin Slaughter

I’ve read a number of books by Karin Slaughter—I’m a fan of her Will Trent procedurals that feature a troubled cop working for the Georgia Bureau of Investigation. This novel feels quite different. Her trademark gritty realism is on display, along with a no-filter depiction of violence found in many of her novels. And yes, it is, in part, a who-done-it. At the same time, the story of two physically and emotionally wounded sisters at odds with each other, their father, and the world reads like Ann Patchett or Barbara Kingsolver. Which is to say, this book contains more than a few moving passages mixed in with the nuts and bolts of a crime procedural. Highly recommended—and it would make a terrific film.

ALL THE DEVILS ARE HERE by Louise Penny

Penny, the popular Canadian writer, usually sets her Armand Gamache series in Canada’s Eastern Townships region in a fictional town called Three Pines. Gamache, formerly Chief Inspector of Quebec’s Sûreté, is a learned man prone to philosophical reflection although capable of decisive action when necessary. The small, tightly-knit community is his refuge and his strength. This time, Penny sends Gamache and his indomitable wide, Reine, to Paris to visit their children, grandchildren and Gamache’s foster father, Stephen. There, he and his son-in-law, also a cop, uncover a dangerous scheme that draws in the entire family. Gamache’s wit, skill, and courage are as formidable as ever, particularly when his loved ones are threatened.

THE SEARCHER by Tara French

Tara French is an Irish-American writer who gained recognition with her Dublin Murder Squad series. In her newest book, she moves the action out into the countryside and adds a twist. Cal Hooper is a retired Chicago homicide detective who’s moved to find peace and perhaps a good pub following an acrimonious divorce and a disheartening epiphany about his work. His hardscrabble North Carolina upbringing should bind him to the scrappy locals, but theirs is an insular community and they keep their secrets. French unspools her story without haste, yet the throb of inevitability never leaves. Hooper realizes early on that this story won’t have a happy ending. As it turns out, though, it’s the necessary one. Sometimes that’s the best you can get.

 

 

February: What’s Not to ❤️ ?

Feb 122019
 

It’s February!

This never used to be a particularly celebratory time, mind you, but I’m turning over a new leaf. Maybe I’m working off a comparison chart. December isn’t particularly joyous to me. The days are short, the energy manic. It’s cold. I hate the cold. I don’t have a holiday tradition—Christmas with the family or some such thing. Nor am I a big fan of January. Same as above but without the slight boost holiday lights offer.

But this month! Short but with more daylight. Clearly the gateway to spring, at least if the clothing catalogues piled into my mailbox are any indication. Robins sit fat and plump on the brown grass and try out their best warbles. And while Valentine’s Day is minimally uncomfortable and even a little… sad for the uncoupled of the world, well, pet love is absolutely a thing.

I admit I’ve been energized by an unexpected spate of warm weather accompanied by the sun, which has been all too scarce this winter. The thermometer climbed past sixty and stayed there—not your grandmother’s winter thaw. My neighbors were out in force, blinking at the pale sun or madly engaging in activities like roller-blading, running, strolling, or kicking and throwing balls. I swear I saw someone in his garden. Of course, we plunged back into the cold because, well, extreme weather is the new normal. Not for long, though. As you read this, temperatures are climbing again.

February holidaysFor such a diminutive month, February features a number of holidays and festivals of varied significance. Did you know February is National Cherry month? Chinese New Year occurs in February this year,  although Fat Tuesday does not. We always begin with Groundhog Day, which seems more meaningful in those parts of the country besieged by extreme weather. Never mind it’s unreasonable to expect a rodent to perform as a meteorologist. Honestly, it doesn’t make sense that we’d greet the sun with an “oh no, six more weeks of winter!” just because some little creature is afraid of his shadow. Talk about seeing the glass as half empty!

We also celebrate Black History month and Presidents’ Day. In the first instance, we set aside a month to remember pieces of history we ought to be celebrating all year round. In the second instance, we randomly meld together the birth dates of two American presidents we consider great, although I wonder if many people under forty knows which two presidents we celebrate—or can name any of the others.

Then there’s Valentine’s Day, whose origin story remains murky. The Catholic Church acknowledges three different martyred souls named Valentine. One was a third century priest who arranged for young lovers to wed in secret. In doing so, he defied the Emperor Claudius II, who figured single young men made better soldiers. Another Valentine apparently helped Christians escape the Roman prisons. That Valentine was subsequently jailed and may or may not have written a note signed “from your Valentine.” Heroic and romantic. Sigh.

John Wick and beagleValentine’s Day seems to have replaced a rather pagan fertility celebration that involved the sacrifice of both a goat and a dog. Now it’s a multi-billion-dollar business that involves reams of paper and toys with the affections of millions. Nevertheless, I’m sure we all agree that exchanging cards is better than blood-letting an animal we’d prefer to see bouncing around on YouTube in pajamas or nuzzling a baby or a cat. In fact, most of us in 2019 would go all John Wick on anyone who hurt a dog.

Speaking of movies: February is a bit of a no-man’s land in terms of sports and entertainment. The Super Bowl and the Golden Globes are both past, leaving only the Oscars, Grammys, and a couple of talent and strength competitions that compete for “most dreadful.” On the other hand, the networks bring back our favorite shows and Netflix continues to pile on the programming.

Molly and me chillinAnd nothing beats reading. After wading through three books I disliked so much I won’t mention them, I read three books in a row I really enjoyed, including an extraordinary science fiction novel and Nebula award winner in 2016 (The Fifth Season by N.K. Nemesin), a lyrical 2018 best seller (Where the Crawdads Sing by Delia Ownes) and an important non-fiction read that manages to be uplifting despite its painful subject matter (Parkland by David Cullen). Even better, I read these absorbing books in front of the fireplace with the dog curled in my lap.

That’s the best kind of February.

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