Delphinium Books Blog

Crying in the Park, Climbing in the Window: Two images helped me imagine the story of a woman scientist

 

When I was a young woman trying to figure out how to be a mother and a writer, I read an interview with cosmologist Vera Rubin. In 1951, after completing a master’s degree in astronomy, Rubin moved to a new city because of her husband’s job, giving up her studies to care for her newborn son. It was a hard time. She loved her baby, but she was lonely. She missed science.

Rubin’s lifeline was the Astrophysical Journal. When it came in the mail, she would take it to the park, pushing her son in his baby carriage, then sit on a bench and read it, weeping.

Eventually, Rubin figured out how to get herself into a PhD program. Twenty years after that, she discovered that the universe largely consists of dark matter, an insight that transformed our understanding of the cosmos. Ultimately, Rubin had a successful and celebrated career. But the image of the young mother with the baby carriage reading an astrophysics journal through her tears remains burned into my mind.

*          *          *

When I was a kid, I wasn’t interested in science. My father, a molecular biologist, would sometimes take me to his lab on Saturdays. Mostly I played with the paper clips in his desk. Other times he would take me into our Maryland woods and show me butterflies, wildflowers, and the dam a pair of beavers built across our stream one year. I would lag behind, impatient to be back inside: to trade the palpable world for the imaginary ones inside books.

Nonetheless, scientists interested me. Or maybe it was the idea of scientists: how they burrowed underneath the skin of the world to find out how it worked. Their seriousness of purpose stirred me. I read the books my father had read as a boy that had helped inspire his interest in science—Sinclair Lewis’s Arrowsmith and Paul de Kruif’s Microbe Hunters—and came away with a romantic notion of a Life Dedicated to Truth. But in high school science classes, as in the woods, my mind often drifted.

In college, I met a boy who loved stars. We got married when he was in astronomy graduate school, and suddenly there I was, surrounded by scientists again! I had never wondered why so few of my father’s colleagues were women, but now I was struck by the fact that my husband’s classmates and professors were almost all men. What was up with that?

Of course, women have long faced obstacles in many professions, but there is something particularly galling about antagonism to women in a calling that’s supposed to be about objectivity and the pursuit of truth.

It’s also interesting. It occurred to me that the travails of a woman scientist might be good fodder for a novel. I started reading, trying to see what I could learn.

There are lots of compelling (infuriating!) stories about women scientists who struggled because of men. Cecilia Payne-Gaposchkin’s discovery of what stars are made of was initially disbelieved, and the man who discouraged her from publishing her result was later widely credited for the breakthrough. Rosalind Franklin’s x-ray photograph of DNA was used without her knowledge by the men who later won the Nobel Prize for solving the molecule’s structure. These women, and others like them, overcame many obstacles to bring us truth from the far reaches of the galaxy and from inside our infinitesimal cells. How did they do it? What sustained them?

One morning, reading the New York Times, I encountered the obituary of a geneticist I had never heard of, Barbara McClintock (1902-1992). One paragraph in particular caught my attention:

Modern genetics has known no figure quite like Dr. McClintock, who worked alone and chose not to publish some of her revolutionary observations for years, explaining later that she thought no one would accept the findings. She never gave lectures, as most scientists do to build their careers. Instead, until her last days, she worked in her laboratory at Cold Spring Harbor twelve hours a day, six days a week. Until 1986, she did not have a telephone, requesting that anyone who wanted to talk to her write a letter instead.

I clipped the obit and put it in a file. I didn’t think I knew enough yet to write that story—not enough about novels or science or life. That would take a couple of decades.

*          *          *

In 2014, I finally felt ready. To prepare to write the novel, I did a lot of research about McClintock. I read biographies, had conversations with scientists (including my dad), and visited archives. One moment from her life particularly stood out to me: as an assistant professor at the University of Missouri, McClintock once climbed into her office through the window because she’d forgotten her key. Somebody saw her do it, and she got in trouble, apparently because it was considered unladylike.

I could see the scene so vividly: a slight, strong woman clambering up a stone wall on (perhaps) an early Sunday morning. Tackling the problem at hand in an effective, unconventional way! That scene was one of the first I wrote. During revision, though, I realized I had to cut the whole Missouri section. That was okay (you always have to cut), but I hated losing that scene.

A few drafts later, I decided to begin the book with the main character wandering the streets of Ithaca, New York, late at night after an ill-conceived and alcohol-fueled kiss with her housemate, another girl. Where would she go at such an hour? I followed her across campus as she tried various locked doors, lugging her heavy suitcase and her shame.

When she got to the biology building, its door was locked too. She looked up to the classroom where her bio lab met, and I thought: What if the window were slightly open? What if she decided to climb up? Transformed, the anecdote from Missouri became just the tool I needed. (The metaphoric overtones—that a woman may need to find an unconventional way into a male-dominated field—did not occur to me until later.)

In the course of writing a novel, it’s often some indelible picture stuck in your head that gets you going, or that helps you through a dark wood when you’re stuck. The woman climbing in through the window helped me solve a problem and gave me an opening chapter. But it was the image of the young mother reading the physics journal and weeping that started me on the journey. I could not have written In the Field without both of them.

In February of this year, a doctor I’d gone to see about a painful, swollen knee told me some unpleasant news:  the problem was arthritis and would be with me for good. She said I could begin work to ease the pain and to keep possession of my biological knees, in a number of ways, but the most important one—she was not unkind, saying this—was that I needed to lose weight, and keep it off.. Like a lot of people, I’d been eating too much while isolated during the COVID epidemic, and I hadn’t been a small person to start with. I nodded, looked in the proverbial mirror, and got started on a course of dieting and physical therapy.

Now, in July 2021, I’m down thirty-five pounds and am on track to lose another twenty by the time I turn 50 in November. My knee feels better.

Nevertheless, I am cautious about optimism. About assuming I’ve fixed what ails me. I’ve been here before, and I know myself a little too well.

In 1999 I was twenty-seven years old. In October of that year, I lost my first wife, Joellen, to bone cancer. When she died I was very heavy—280 pounds or thereabouts. (I’m 6’4”, and had grown up skinny; in my twenties, however, after my metabolism slowed to a crawl, I never learned to change my eating habits, and when Joellen grew sicker and sicker, I was in no state of mind to stop eating for comfort.)  A little over a year after Joellen died—a year I spent monomaniacally working out and dieting—I had lost nearly 80 pounds.

A success story, right? Not really. By 2006 I’d gained a lot of it back. Disgusted with myself, I joined a gym and lost 45 pounds. I slowly gained it back. In 2012-13, I learned how to count calories with an app on my phone, and I put 1400 miles on a road bike, and I lost 40 pounds. And then I slowly gained it back.

And so on, and so on.

I calculate that in the last two decades, I’ve lost around 250 pounds of aggregate weight. I weigh less than that at the time of this writing—around 239 or so. I sometimes marvel that I have gained and lost an entire other large human being’s worth of weight. A whole other me, consumed and then gone.

When I lost 80 pounds, that terrible year after my first wife’s passing, I did it out of desperation and fear. My wife had met and fallen in love with me when I was smaller, and I figured I’d need to be small to meet and ever be loved by someone else. In 2001, when I weighed 205 pounds, I started dating again, and I convinced myself I’d been right: I needed a “normal” body in order not to be lonely. I was exorbitantly proud of myself for having done this. I bought into the notion that losing weight was a heroic thing to have done—an act of steely will, and not a reaction to grief. A fundamental change of self subsumed within the physical transformation.

And if I took that to be true, then, when I gained the weight back, well—wasn’t that a sign of weakness? Of failure? (Never mind that in that same span of twenty years I married again; I began and maintained a writing career; I became a professor and earned tenure and founded an MFA program and saw many students of mine succeed. I was loved and had friends. Yet all that while, I was judging myself, alternately growing and shrinking, stuffing myself and starving in what seemed like a never-ending cycle.)

In 2017-18, finally, I began thinking differently about this cycle, and these emotions. That was, not uncoincidentally when I began writing the novella “Big Guy,” which anchors my story collection You Would Have Told Me Not To. I am not someone who believes that writing fiction is automatically therapeutic. I am someone who writes in order to think about complicated ideas, to see how imagined people might succeed or fail at the trials which have so bedeviled me and others. Maybe that I was thinking differently brought “Big Guy” into being, or maybe that I started writing it caused me to think differently. Both are likely true.

The novella isn’t about me—I write fiction, and “Big Guy,” and all the other stories in You Would Have Told Me Not To, are about made-up people. But Doug, the protagonist of “Big Guy,” could fairly be described as an alternate me, someone I could have been. The version of me who chose to become a high school English teacher, maybe, instead of going to graduate school (twice!) to study creative writing. (Or maybe he’s the aggregate me—the other person’s worth of weight I’ve gained and lost.) This man, Doug, decides, in the wake of a sudden and painful divorce, that he needs to lose 100 pounds in order to be happy, to be loved. He sets about doing it. He thinks that if his body is healthy, all the rest of him will be too.

(A spoiler that really isn’t: he’s mistaken.)

 

I didn’t know I was writing a story collection until I was halfway through “Big Guy.” I realized, writing it, that the novella was going to be about some of the same ideas that concern several short stories I’d already written, most of them between 2015-2019. That means almost all of this book was written after the election of Donald Trump; and written during the #metoo movement, which showed me that I (and every other man trying to pay attention) knew a lot less about what the women in my life have suffered than I’d ever supposed. The stories I was writing, I saw, were largely about the type of men who cause that suffering, and the fallout from their choices. And maybe I could shape them all together into a book.

Not all of these ideas were new. I’m the son of a violent alcoholic, himself the son of a violent alcoholic. I grew up knowing that my dad’s ideas about masculinity weren’t the ones I wanted to uphold. I’ve spent a lifetime trying to be a different sort of man, and in many ways, I have succeeded, and my earlier fiction reflects that thinking.

But the last few years have caused me to rethink everything. I’m nearly fifty, as I’ve said. Old enough to have succeeded, but also to have failed, a lot…and I’ve been writing about failure, too. About trying to change, and not changing. About how—for instance—the way I think about my body, and other’s bodies, has everything to do with the ways I’ve been getting my thinking about masculinity wrong. That these ways of thinking don’t exist in a vacuum. That our interior struggles, even if they seem minor, can often cause major exterior harm.

The finished collection ended up full of stories about couples, men,and women trying to navigate that harm. Several of them are still trying to reckon with past mistakes, to figure out whether they have changed, or ever can. A violent day laborer, willingly staying out of the eyes of society, meets a man who might be his illegitimate son. A privileged college boy spends a summer cheating on his absent girlfriend, while in thrall to a rich lothario who visits the mountain resort where he works. A woman has to reckon with her complex feelings about her adult son—and the son’s father—in the wake of the son being shot outside a bar. The last story I wrote for the book, finished around one minute before my editor Joe Olshan’s deadline, is about a woman who encounters, by chance, a man she’d hoped never to see again: her alcoholic, abusive ex-husband, now apparently sober and reformed, and engaged to be married again. He’s changed, he says—everyone says. So has she. And yet her hurt remains.

Can we change? I wrote “Big Guy,” learned a great deal, and then ate myself into the doctor’s office again. I write this post aware of the irony. But I also write it in the spirit of optimism, the same way I wrote the stories in the collection. Change, growth, reconciliation, forgiveness—these are hard to accomplish and getting harder. Nevertheless, they are what we all have to undergo.

I wrote this book believing—and believing still—that

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.