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“Oh, conversion, being born again. For me it was the first time I felt like I could really, truly see since I stopped writing. I used to be a poet, you know. It helped me think.” Sorrow pricked Natalia at the idea of writing—which she intended to do, though hadn’t yet—becoming something someone “used to” do.
Nick lifted both hands as if he were going to bless her. Instead, he picked up the mango. He bit just to the side of the mouth shape she’d made in the flesh, once, and once more. Once, he’d cradled newborns who squalled at the fresh bright world—at what point did children cease to be small gods? When did they become people to escape?
“That might just be the shadows.” Nick gestured at the branches overhead; she obligingly studied the web of oak and moss she saw every day. He sat at the pool’s edge, disturbing its surface with small kicks, and stared downward. She felt like an intruder. Only since her father left had she realized how much she didn’t know—how arrogant she’d been to believe she alone had a chambered self. An inner life. When Nick slid all the way in and under, she picked up her books.
“Sit down.” He began to unmake the towers and arrange the pieces on the board. “What’s your favorite color?” Not waiting for her to answer, he said, “I forgot something.”
“What?” Her favorite color was the blue of his robe. He flicked off the light and left the room without replying. Two minutes, six minutes. She raised the blinds so that moonlight crisped the edges of shadows. Time goes slowly, too, she thought, and stood to leave. Then he reappeared. “I thought you went to bed,” she said.
i like this
The beer was disgusting. She didn’t want to say that. When she had so many thoughts, why was there so little that could be said? He was staring at the nothing hanging between them. The beach umbrella. Something strained within her, a pressure like that of the Holy Spirit when it overtook a person. That had only happened to her once so far. Then, in the sanctuary, someone had caught her as she fell, coaching her to let go, let go. So she obeyed. A new person in her body, someone who was not the babysitter, placed chilled fingers on his wrist. He covered her fingers with his.
ahhh omg
The not-quite-not-yet-maybe-soon Natalia took another sip of beer then brushed his trousered leg with one bare foot. Her present-tense self trembled. He didn’t seem to notice. Talking to her was a pretext to speak whatever he usually left unspoken even to himself.
“You wouldn’t be able to tell now, but Sylvia was a bonfire all on her own, obsessed with her poetry and me,” he said. “It was exhausting. And I did the adultery part, a couple of times. I was a dick. For a while, she was really depressed. Never tried to kill herself or anything. She’s not capable of harming herself. I did know that. Too beautiful. Too much respect for the object.”
If everyone began talking as if to no one, what would they say? Her mother? Her father? Her brothers and sisters? Maximilian and Emily? She employed the grown-up tactic of redirection. “Do you teach that book—Ariel?”
Down the hall a door creaked. She wrenched away. Horror wiped his face blank.
“Take the beer,” he said.
Adult collusion. His hand destroyed the evidence. A few pieces fell on the floor.
Upstairs, she could hear them talking. No words, just a man’s voice, a woman’s, back and forth.
wow
I’m a firm believer in tricking myself as I write. Bad confessional poetry has always raised my hackles, because it goes skewering in deep, exclaiming, Ooh, look at all this blood! But I’m like, No one’s interested in your blood. Make me bleed as I’m reading.
I do. The psychology of creative writing fascinates me—how different voices and points of view come into being. The reader’s involvement is crucial as well. Sometimes I think of the way a writer opens a novel as akin to how clinical psychology begins, with a kind of contract that the reader—God, I mean the patient—enters into with the psychotherapist. You establish a mutual trust on which the subsequent process depends, so that the necessary stages of resistance, transference, and so on can take place. All this must lead to a certain release, a kind of catharsis, such that the patient who’s undergone psychotherapy is no longer the person he was at the beginning. That’s what a writer does as well, and how fiction works on its readers. Setting up a legible agreement and upholding it encourages the audience to keep reading despite all the ways the book might disturb them, so that, at the end, they will come out changed. I believe that every good novel changes its reader in some fashion.
I always felt that writing short stories was more of a job. I could complete them on a schedule—they were inevitably finished within a day, or a few. Novels are impossible to execute that way. Over the years that you work, your sense of the book shifts. You deepen your understanding of your characters—you’re living together. Once I’m halfway done with a novel, they start saying things of their own accord. Sometimes I’ll think to myself, This is even better than I could have imagined.