Delphinium Books Blog

New York City, where I’ve lived for decades, has been, for me, an endless source of inspiration for my novels and short stories. The things I’ve seen and overheard—while in line at Whole Foods or while sitting in the waiting room in a doctor’s office or standing in a subway car next to a teenager watching a TV show on his phone—have often found their way into my fiction. The shoes my characters wear, the tattoos ornamenting their wrists or ankles, the frustration they unleash as they shout into their iPhones at friends or relatives who’ve disappointed or angered them—sometimes nearly every bit of it has been inspired by people sitting across from me on the Lexington Avenue bus. Or walking past me along 86^th Street, phone in hand, as they reveal surprisingly intimate details of their lives in the loudest of voices. And my natural instincts as a fiction writer always lead me to pay close attention, to write down whatever I find poignant or hilarious or astonishing directly into a small notebook I keep with me whenever I leave my apartment. As the T-shirt given to me by a friend warns: .

The idea for my new novel, The Blackmailer’s Guide to Love, came to me in an instant one spring afternoon eight very long years ago, as I was heading homeward from the subway. I was less than a half-block from my apartment when I saw, for the first time in precisely forty years, a man I recognized immediately, a former college teacher of mine who looked rather as he had when I’d been his student, though he was now an elderly man, his hair thinning and white, his formerly bearded face now mostly clean-shaven. And in that moment I thought, I know what you did, Professor X. I KNOW what you did.

Then I stopped him on the street and introduced myself. I’d been his student decades earlier in the philosophy class he taught and, as I could have predicted, he had no idea who I was. But we chatted for a few minutes about our mutual time on campus, and talked about what a coincidence it was that, in fact, we now lived directly across the street from one another, our apartment buildings a mere fifty feet apart.

I know what you did, Professor X. I KNOW what you did.

What I knew was that forty years earlier, this geeky-looking married guy had been sleeping with a sophomore in my dorm, a serious-minded teenager who was a student in the small ethics class Professor X had taught in the Philosophy Department.

In the next moment, as we went our separate ways, the earliest seeds of my new novel were planted. What if my protagonist/narrator (a bereft, emotionally unstable middle-aged woman who’d once been the professor’s student) strolled into the lobby of the professor’s high-rise apartment building, talked her way past the concierge, went up to his apartment, and rang the bell? What if the professor’s wife—to whom he’d been married for over half a century and who knew absolutely nothing about her husband’s betrayal—answered the door, and the former student announced, “You don’t know me, but there’s something I have to tell you…” What would it do to this couple’s relationship, to the betrayed wife who had never doubted, for even a moment during their fifty-year marriage, her husband’s faithfulness? Or…what if, instead, the narrator confronted her former professor and threatened to tell his wife unless he immediately wrote her a check for five thousand dollars? And a few months later demanded ten thousand? And then twenty thousand? How far would he be willing to go to preserve his marriage?

Though I wasn’t at all sure where, exactly, these ideas would lead me, the one thing I knew with certainty that afternoon after running into Professor X was that somewhere in that briefest of encounters was a novel I was going to write. And I found myself thinking, as I do nearly every day, of my favorite quote from Mark Twain: “There was never yet an uninteresting life. Such a thing is an impossibility. Inside of the dullest exterior there is a drama, a comedy, and a tragedy.”

I find my urge to disbelieve in concentration camps, and in what is done to the people in them, is quite strong. Maybe “disbelieve” isn’t quite the right word. We call reacting to made-up events and people as if they were real, the way we do when we read fiction, “suspending disbelief.” What I’m thinking about is the reverse of that: I’m perfectly capable of acknowledging horrible truths about concentration camps, but I can hold them in my mind as though they were fictive – I can read about real, suffering humans as though they were characters with no claim on me. So, the urge isn’t to disbelieve, exactly: it’s to suspend my belief.

You would think, having spent the better part of a decade writing a novel set in the Gulag, I’d have pretty well exhausted this urge to ‘suspend belief’. I regret to say I haven’t. The years writing and researching The Body Outside the Kremlin trained me to believe deeply in the history of the Soviet camps (at least enough to fictionalize them; more on this below); still, I had to endure the process again last week as I read Amelia Pang’s Made In China: A Prisoner, an SOS Letter, and the Hidden Cost of America’s Cheap Goods.

Pang’s book is an overview of China’s laogai system of “reform-through-labor” camps, woven together with the story of Sun Yi, a laogai prisoner who managed to smuggle notes describing the conditions of his imprisonment into the products he was forced to manufacture for sale in the US. When a K-Mart customer finally found one of his letters in her Halloween decorations in 2014, it led to a modest amount of national coverage here in the states. This certainly isn’t a review, but I can say it’s a good book on an important subject, worth the read for anyone. Even so, I think it must have taken a hundred pages before I stopped quibbling doubtfully with it as I read.

Quibbles such as: Well, Sun Yi was a falun gong practitioner, and aren’t they notorious for supporting ultra-rightist causes? Pang had even written for the falun gong newspaper, the Epoch Times, home to some of the US’s most noxious Trumpist conspiracy-mongering. Were she and her subject really so credible? And later, Pang’s points about the US consumer’s culpability in creating the conditions that made Chinese forced labor profitable: Was I supposed to believe that my choice of t-shirt really had critical moral consequences? Am I really guilty?

I expect anyone who’s read a well-sourced book that pushes them to reassess their own comfortable place in the world will recognize my pseudo-arguments. They’re deflections, ultimately beside the point. Whatever you think of falun gong’s commitments, it’s undeniable their practitioners are brutally repressed in China. By the same token, worrying about the Epoch Times’s credibility ignores Pang’s solid journalism. In the end, whether you believe in the efficacy of consumer activism or not has no bearing on whether US consumption drives laogai labor practices. It does. That’s a fact.

So why didn’t I want to go along with Pang’s book? Where does the urge to ‘suspend belief’ come from?

Partly, it’s a kind of horror-fatigue. My wife joked, after Kremlin was published, that she was relieved we were finally being released from Solovetsky, the camp where it’s set. And it really has felt like a liberation to move on to other research, other stories. It used to spoil my appetite to imagine the consequences of starvation for Russian prisoners: night blindness, pellagra, death by heart failure. My appetite is gone again as I think about what happened to Sun Yi when he started a hunger strike: The guards at his laogai cuffed him to a bed by his wrists and ankles and force-fed him salty millet through a tube run through his nose and down his throat. This lasted for months. When they finally removed the tube, Pang reports, the part that had hung down into his stomach was black.

Cheap irony that one set of camps tortured with starvation while the other tortures with feeding. (Not that laogai prisoners are fed particularly well when they’re not hunger-striking.) But for the most part laogai and Gulag regimes are uncannily similar. At times, I felt like I was going down a list of details the two had in common. Prisoners sleeping head-to-toe to fit into the tiny space they had to lie down? Check. The maddening difficulty of working while holding your pants up when you’re forbidden to have a belt?  Prisoners mutilating themselves with tools to escape impossible work quotas? Check and check.

Easier to turn all of that into a litany than to stop and dwell on what each item means for you if you are imprisoned. That’s what I mean by horror-fatigue.

Pang spends a couple of chapters discussing the ways that the moral and cognitive burdens that the laogai system imposes on US consumers keep them from grappling with their responsibility for it. I won’t rehearse her arguments here, but I know this is part of the urge to ‘suspend belief’ as well. Like most people, I don’t like to feel guilty, but I don’t like to have to work too hard to avoid guilt either. If I don’t force myself to think about it, allowing what I know about laogai to float into the fictive zone of my mind conveniently excuses me from having to do either.

So far the feelings I’ve described could apply to anything horrifying and morally uncomfortable, but I do, finally, think that the ‘suspension of belief’ is particularly relevant to our experience of the camps. Certain basic facts of their structure render them dream-like, otherworldly. They are often remote, and when they aren’t (as is often the case for laogais, which need to be more or less convenient to manufacturing centers), they are at least inaccessible. Within them, the usual rules of life are suspended, as in a dream or a game. A prisoner might, like Sun Yi, find that the only way to object to his captivity is to starve himself or to slip a note into a package of Halloween decorations. He might, like my character Tolya, find that the only way to investigate a murder is to cut off his little finger. Or she might, like so many, find that regardless of how much she would like to sleep, she continues to do hard labor for eighteen hours a day, day after day. One of the things I find hardest to make real to myself about the camp experience is just how little a prisoner’s daily routine is influenced by their intentions or desires; we’re accustomed to thinking of human activity as an index of human mental states, but the evidence of the camps is that that need not be true.

Distance and strangeness push camps away from our usual sense of reality and into the realms of fiction. A concentration camp is a frozen planet, a city of ghosts, an x-zone, a dark kingdom under the hill. And to live under a regime that sends people away to them is to live with the threat that your reality might dissolve into such a state-sponsored fantasy at any moment. That assault on your sense of what’s real and what isn’t, so that you learn to suspend your belief in everything until the state has endorsed it — that has to be part of the point.

Writing The Body Outside the Kremlin always felt both important and morally hazardous to me. Important because I, like most people who love fiction, still believe in its power to be true in ways that make reality more real, ways that might be able to fill life back up when concentration camps and other systems of repression drain the reality out of it. But always hazardous as well, since for all my research and cultivated sense of Solovetsky’s truth, I was also creating a fictional version of the place, turning it into an outpost of my imagination. There’s the risk, doing that, of turning a camp back into one of those realms of fiction. You might make it a dream for your reader, or a game, in ways that mirror the totalitarian project you began by condemning.

I could say that I hope The Body Outside the Kremlin affirms reality as only fiction can while succumbing to moral hazard as little as possible. But that just amounts to saying that I hope it’s a good book, and the time for me to make that judgment is well past. Instead, I’ll say I’m glad Amelia Pang wrote her book, and that Sun Yi managed to get his note out. It’s healthy to be reminded how strong the urge to ‘suspend belief’ can be.

The Opposite of Chance may have had the longest gestation period in literary history. I started writing what came to be this novel about a young woman backpacking her way across Europe in 1981 when I was a young woman backpacking my way across Europe in 1982. And I returned to it decades later.

I always envisioned a series of encounters between an assorted cast of characters and my protagonist as she launches her first solo expedition, a journey into the unfamiliar. Three of the chapters were published as short stories in literary magazines, but I didn’t get back to finishing the novel I’d projected. While I wasn’t content to let go of those chapters and regard them as loosely connected finished stories, I wasn’t sure where to take my protagonist, and I didn’t want her itinerary to be the sole determinant of her journey. The project’s long hibernation provided me with a new, invigorating vision, spurred by an encounter.

After a series of misadventures involving a lost passport and missed flights, I found myself sitting glumly at the airport in Montreal. My mood lifted as I watched – stared at – a piercingly handsome middle-aged Muslim kneeling nearby, directing his prayers toward Mecca. His noticeably dyed hair was growing out and the fact of this transfixed me. I knew nothing of his character except that he was devout enough to adhere to the rituals his religion required of him and I couldn’t reconcile that with him dyeing his gray roots. The mystery of that Muslim traveled with me for months to come and became the first person Betsy meets on her travels.

But he became much more than that. Having made almost a hobby of wondering about this stranger, of imagining him, I found in him more than another character to be met and left behind. He delivered the unusual structure of the novel to me. Perhaps there are several novels that feature a protagonist who crosses paths with other characters and then, while she goes on her way, the other characters’ stories unfold in the interleaving chapters without her, but I have not come across them. I began to reflect on how the layered stories of a person are not easily revealed, and how first impressions belie imperceptible nuances that sketch a fuller person. I devised this novel format for a novel because I wanted to tell not just Betsy’s story but his story too. More than that, I wanted to learn his story.

 

And that required months of research. About the Muslim religion, about the difficulties of travel to Mecca and the rituals of the Hajj, about the war in Lebanon during that time period, about the National Museum of Beirut, about Lebanese Arabic names, and more. But Kassim, whose name means “dispenser of food and goods,” became not just a fully realized character – he showed me how to proceed with the novel as a whole.

I did the same for the other characters Betsy met. I had the joy – and the challenge – of exploring a multitude of disparate lives to a depth that few novelists get to revel in. In the labor of writing this novel, I learned about subjects ranging from blackjack to rabbit farming. Like Betsy, I was having an adventure. The Opposite of Chance, a glimmer of an idea born in a particular moment and decade, has me looking back in time, with the tools that I have sharpened across years, words once scrawled with a pen now recorded and formatted with the technology of this time. I hope to bring something of the 1980s, and that pen, to the page.

 

The Franklin Avenue Rookery for Wayward Babies collection took about three years to write. After I lived through decades of suitcase rambles and backpacking tramps.  My stories came from these travels – some exotic – Varanasi, Rome, Kathmandu, Japan, Isle of Skye; some closer to home – New Orleans, Tijuana, Valdez. I don’t travel so I can write.  I travel so I can expand. In fact, I didn’t know I would have such a far-flung collection when I started.

The ‘beach resort cum prickly-pear-margarita’ vacation is nice.  But that’s an afternoon nap; it is not travel. Travel is a wide-awake experience.  Authentically first person. Travel is seldom easy – many times sleep deprived, food and language challenged. It’s not for the weak at heart.  But heart is exactly what it delivers.  I am a seeker of beauty – in nature, architecture, cuisine, culture. Words. If I have to walk there to find it, so much the better. I don’t think about writing as I travel, and I don’t take notes, although that’s exactly what the photographs turn out to be.  I am open to experience.  And often it’s magnificent.  So later, when I’m at my kitchen table or by my gas fireplace with the faux logs, my mind travels back to the higher-than-the-clouds Himalayas or to the gold-haloed icons in an onion-domed church.  Some of these places I find so exquisite, I want to write – not about them – but about how they make me feel.

The first story I wrote for Franklin Avenue, The House of Naan and Saffron, came out of a trip to Varanasi, the most holy city in India on the banks of the holy Ganges River. It was a colorful, hectic, hazy, completely non-Western experience; they burn bodies in the open and sweep them into the river. I could not expect to fully interpret or understand the culture.  But I could experience it.  Take photos like breadcrumbs and follow them back later in memory.  This turned into a story about a Norwegian preacher trying to convert Hindus to Christianity, and win back his wife.

At one of the “three most beautiful” gardens in Japan, there are two shallow streams and when the iris bloom, growing right out of the water, the banks are fringed in violet. Later, I found myself wanting to write about these flowers, what it would be like to sink into that color.  Just a story about those flowers, that color. This grew into a rather magical tale of reincarnation, which is the last story in the collection, The Color of Fisticuffs and Bloodlines.

There are authors who do not need to travel to write about a location.  My favorite example is John Irving’s Son of the Circus, a wonderful romp through India.  Mr. Irving never went to India. I bow to him.  For me, it is quite often the location that creates the space for the story, and then the characters fall, literally, into place.

Travel will always be my muse, both for settings and experiences.  The year before Covid 19 my husband and I were in Paris.  I ordered too much for breakfast and I took a leftover hardboiled egg with me, put it in my pocket.  We went to climb the 222 steps up to the basilica of Sacre-Coeur.  There was a raggedy man sleeping on the steps, vertically, his body splayed across four rows, face up, arms out, palms up.  My God, he looked like Jesus, and terribly uncomfortable. How could he sleep like that? I put the boiled egg into the curve of his up-turned palm.  He would find it when he woke up. Oh, the magic of it!  Or maybe he would hit himself in the face with it. I’m not sure yet. I haven’t written the story.

Irises that inspired a story.

Encounters with local residents.

 

Laura Newman on a trek in the Himalayas.

 

 

It’s a rare privilege to work with an author whose work you’ve admired your entire life.  This was the case with Alison Lurie, who died on December 3^rd, 2020, at the age of 94.

I first read Lurie’s novel, Foreign Affairs,  as a young man on an airplane crossing the Atlantic.  I’d heard that it involved love affairs between  American and English academics, and thought what better way to prepare myself to enter a foreign country.  They may speak our language in England, but the customs and attitudes there are different–foreign by a considerable degree.  Lurie was able to capture the nuances of these differences and, I imagine, was helped by the fact that she spent part of every year in a part of London called Maida Vale.

Many years later, when I learned that Alison had a manuscript reflecting her views of architecture on offer, I contacted her agent.  I’d heard the book was called The Language of Houses and at once realized it was probably a follow up to her famous book, published in the 70’s called The Language of Clothes, which is a delightful disquisition on fashion. After acquiring the new book, I worked closely with Alison on its content and was delighted that a revered and established novelist such as she was not only open to my editorial suggestions, but actually followed most of them.  Once published, her book delighted critics and readers alike, and she was called upon to comment upon the architecture of various American cities. The Language of Houses has already appeared on the syllabus of college courses seeking an introduction to architecture by someone with a gimlet eye, someone like Alison Lurie.

Alison was one of the few writers I met who would go to great lengths not to talk about herself.  It wasn’t because she was pathologically private; on the contrary. “I know my own life,” she would say, “And because I know it, it’s not interesting to me.  I’d much prefer to learn about other people.” Rare among writers, most of whom would prefer to talk about themselves and their ideas and, perhaps to a lesser degree, their work, Alison was genuinely curious. She asked a lot of questions, candidly commented on the answers, and gave her opinion about what she heard or suspected she didn’t hear about and still wanted to know.

She was blunt in conversation, she was sometimes ornery, but these qualities were accepted, even appreciated by people who knew her well enough to know that she had no tolerance for artifice. This intolerance extended to her view of contemporary literature as well as to other acclaimed writers whose work she not always admired.  She was part of a group of writers who spend part of every year in Key West, and was generous to them as well as the literary community.  The last time I saw her was at her home there, when we were having an editorial discussion about her most recent book, called Words and Worlds, the paperback of which was published earlier this year.

Although it is populated with essays about literature for children and young adults with disquisitions on Harry Potter, The Chronicles of Narnia and the real story behind Pinocchio, the book begins with a very personal account of what life was like for a student attending Radcliffe during the second World War. Lurie explains that women who took co-educational classes were expected to remain quiet and defer to men; they were also expected to knit garments for the war effort.  There is another touching essay about Lurie’s first attempts at writing and how she was discouraged, not just by her own early failures, but also by people she knew who doubted her talent. She goes as far as to describe a moment by the Charles River in Boston when she was seriously considering giving up.  But obviously she persevered.

The book also turns on her various friendships with other writers and artists and intellectuals like Barbara Epstein (who launched the New York Review of Books), the famous cartoonist Edward Gorey, as well as her friendship with the poet, James Merrill.  What these essays reveal, beyond indelible portraits of these noted friends, is the author’s capacity for friendship, her devotion to it, and how she reaps the benefits as we, the reader, reap the benefits of her careful and measured observations.

Worth noting is the last essay of Alison Lurie’s most recent book that discusses how, having once been a fashionista, she, after passing the age of sixty, felt liberated to no longer care about tarting up in order to keep up.

“Already I had saved the two hours a month I had spent trying to turn my hair into a dull imitation of its original color and then cleaning up the mess in the sink afterwards. Next, with my husband’s encouragement, I saved more time by throwing away my makeup. Powder and foundation and eye-shadow tend to cake in wrinkles, and an aging woman with bright-red lipstick, especially when it has leaked into the little, otherwise invisible lines around her lips, can look like an elderly vampire, or worse. She can become the sort of terrifying figure that the Ancient Mariner saw on the death-ship:

Some of my friends made similar changes, all individual and all in defiance of Fashion. One gave away all her skirts and went into pants and jeans for the duration; another disobeyed the rule that dresses are now for formal occasions only and began sewing herself loose-cut casual smocks and muumuus in an unfashionable mid-calf length: she is a serious gardener, and points out that it is much easier to wash your knees than to wash a pair of slacks. Another friend decided that she would simplify her basic wardrobe to basic black, with accents of purple or green or scarlet.

All of us realized with joy that we could now wear whatever clothes we liked best. There was only one rule: we had to be reasonably neat. It may be true that, as the poet Robert Herrick put it, “a sweet disorder in the dress / Kindles in youth a wantonness,” but in old age what it kindles is the suspicion that you are starting to lose your mind. Spiky, confused-looking hair of the sort that goes to fashionable clubs, ragged hems, torn-up jeans, and unraveling sweaters no longer look appealing. Realizing this, even the most charmingly untidy of my friends have now reformed. We do still see some unfortunate contemporaries who haven’t learned this rule—and also, alas, some who are still worshipping at the altar of Fashion, who has forever turned her back on them.”

This writing is vintage Alison Lurie, who, despite what she says above, aged gracefully and was as sharp at the age of 94 as she was at the age of 58 when her novel, Foreign Affairs was awarded the Pulitzer-prize for fiction.