or sometimes the remembrance of a simple recipe: mousse au citron , Chantilly cream. Doucement, doucement , I hear her say; use the fork and only the fork, be gentle, be patient. Who else? There’s Lois, my still-living but silent mother-in-law, and this is a silence I must deal with soon, or get Tom to deal with. And, of course, there is the immense, hovering presence of Danielle Westerman with her European-based culture, her thin, distinguished chin, her boxy knuckles and long crimson nails. Would Danielle approve? I scarcely ever budge from my habitual stances or perspectives without causing that stern question to flap against my ear. Last week I disappointed her by using the word veggies . She had thought better of me, I could tell.
These human mysteries—cleaning my house, fantasizing about the lives of other people—keep me company, keep me alert.
But more than anything else it is the rhythm of typing-and-thinking that soothes me, what is almost an athletes delight in the piling of clause on clause. Who would have thought this old habit of mine would become a strategy formaintaining a semblance of ongoing life, an unasked-for gift, une prime . On days when I don’t know which foot to put in front of the other, I can type my way toward becoming a conscious being. Writing a light novel is very much as Mr. Scribano promised: a diversion, a forgiving place with fine air and moisture and attractive people seen through nicely blurred light. I can squeeze my eyes shut, pop through a little door in the wall, and stand outside my child’s absence. I can hush the critical voice in my head that weighs serious literature against what is merely entertainment. A quick read. A beach book. Light, lightly. The kind of shallow invention this particular genre demands is as healing as holy oil. “Deep down we’re all shallow”—who said that?
The pages of the new manuscript add up quickly, though narrative coherence is in short supply in the early chapters. I’ve already blocked in the happy ending, but now I have to throw a few hurdles in the way. Roman and Alicia have set the date for their wedding. The invitations have already been mailed to their families and friends, beautifully lettered on rice paper by Alicia herself, who has a gift for calligraphy. But there are complications, and some of these I have yet to work out. I don’t want to overburden my people with neuroses; I want to suggest a rumple of complication disturbing their psychic normalcy. Alicia has one or two remaining doubts about marriage to Roman. She’s seen the way he gets itchy and feverish when he’s around her friend Suzanne. This isher second marriage, after all, and she’s been warned that musicians are unstable. Roman plays trombone in the Wychwood Symphony, Wychwood being my fictional city, a self-important, swaggering cousin to Toronto. Alicia has noticed that Roman is inattentive to his personal hygiene, and has to remind herself that his odour of musk was attractive to her in the early days. His forthright chin suggests conceit. When he’s in the presence of men who are taller than he is, he becomes faintly obsequious, and touches his mouth rather a lot, like the Mrs. McGinn of my imagination. This is beginning to get on Alicia’s nerves, and she’s thinking of mentioning it to him. Meanwhile Suzanne—Suzanne does something, something unpardonable, but finely modulated in its intent. Or perhaps it is Sylvia, the symphony’s bassoonist. The details must be worked through.
In all probability Roman is having second thoughts about the marriage, too, but I am not inside Roman’s massed angular head. It is Alicia’s skin I wear. I see through her woman’s eyes, reach with her woman’s fingers, stroking the thick and rather sticky wool of Roman’s brushed-back hair. Should something be said to him about his brand of hair gel? Soon. And how painstakingly must I describe Alicia’s apartment? Fiction demands such pitiless enumeration;
These human mysteries—cleaning my house, fantasizing about the lives of other people—keep me company, keep me alert.
But more than anything else it is the rhythm of typing-and-thinking that soothes me, what is almost an athletes delight in the piling of clause on clause. Who would have thought this old habit of mine would become a strategy formaintaining a semblance of ongoing life, an unasked-for gift, une prime . On days when I don’t know which foot to put in front of the other, I can type my way toward becoming a conscious being. Writing a light novel is very much as Mr. Scribano promised: a diversion, a forgiving place with fine air and moisture and attractive people seen through nicely blurred light. I can squeeze my eyes shut, pop through a little door in the wall, and stand outside my child’s absence. I can hush the critical voice in my head that weighs serious literature against what is merely entertainment. A quick read. A beach book. Light, lightly. The kind of shallow invention this particular genre demands is as healing as holy oil. “Deep down we’re all shallow”—who said that?
The pages of the new manuscript add up quickly, though narrative coherence is in short supply in the early chapters. I’ve already blocked in the happy ending, but now I have to throw a few hurdles in the way. Roman and Alicia have set the date for their wedding. The invitations have already been mailed to their families and friends, beautifully lettered on rice paper by Alicia herself, who has a gift for calligraphy. But there are complications, and some of these I have yet to work out. I don’t want to overburden my people with neuroses; I want to suggest a rumple of complication disturbing their psychic normalcy. Alicia has one or two remaining doubts about marriage to Roman. She’s seen the way he gets itchy and feverish when he’s around her friend Suzanne. This isher second marriage, after all, and she’s been warned that musicians are unstable. Roman plays trombone in the Wychwood Symphony, Wychwood being my fictional city, a self-important, swaggering cousin to Toronto. Alicia has noticed that Roman is inattentive to his personal hygiene, and has to remind herself that his odour of musk was attractive to her in the early days. His forthright chin suggests conceit. When he’s in the presence of men who are taller than he is, he becomes faintly obsequious, and touches his mouth rather a lot, like the Mrs. McGinn of my imagination. This is beginning to get on Alicia’s nerves, and she’s thinking of mentioning it to him. Meanwhile Suzanne—Suzanne does something, something unpardonable, but finely modulated in its intent. Or perhaps it is Sylvia, the symphony’s bassoonist. The details must be worked through.
In all probability Roman is having second thoughts about the marriage, too, but I am not inside Roman’s massed angular head. It is Alicia’s skin I wear. I see through her woman’s eyes, reach with her woman’s fingers, stroking the thick and rather sticky wool of Roman’s brushed-back hair. Should something be said to him about his brand of hair gel? Soon. And how painstakingly must I describe Alicia’s apartment? Fiction demands such pitiless enumeration;
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