Sitting downstairs is the first good draft of the above titled book. Coming in about 185 pages, it contains about 20 or more original stories written since I thought about writing such a book, I believe, in May 2009. Jane will do the first reading of it, writing notes for her promised introduction to the book as well as suggestions of what to keep in and what to drop from the collection. I tried all kinds of writerly approaches in this work, from traditional stories to the avant garde. I have one story in which the character tells me, the author, to stop interfering with the arc of the story; in other words, butt out. I have stories in which there are three points of view which gave me a chance to comment on what I was writing. I have one story dealing with cannibalism, one with Shoah business, one reveals the workings of a survivor’s thinking after the war, and a few fantasy stories all with a serious bent. I believe this is my last effort in this area. I must move on. But who knows?
For me the test of a good story or one that I am relatively satisfied with is a story that makes me feel first, then the reader. As a writer I can never tell if I reach that mark, so I count on Jane, of late, to give me her sense of it. Our “contract” is simple: tell me the truth, don’t pull your punches. A story can always be redone or dispensed with. And it is working so far. Of course, I have learned to balance the stories in a collection, starting off with an appetizer or “starter,” moving into entres and then ending with a hefty dessert. Most of the stories are no longer than 5 pages, some as much as 12 or 16 pages. I felt I could get to the point sooner. As I come closer to my end, less is more seems very pertinent — and true.
Robert Langer, one of our better writers on the Holocaust, and a professor of English, I believe, tells the story of his sister’s concern for him as he wrote book after book about the Holocaust. She felt he would enter into depression if he continued to do such work. What she did was to crochet or knit covers for throw pillows for her brother with such comments as — Life is good; Things will get better; Go outside and smell the roses, or some such slogans of good cheer. Langer tried to convey to her that this was his life’s work and that the events he dealt with were sullen, sorry and sordid, however, he had the requisite skill to stand back and to observe, to record and reveal his perceptions. Amen to that.
What I feel about my book is that on some level it is a metaphor for what I have personally suffered in life; that is, an attempt by me to find purpose, intent or meaning, perhaps insight or a kind of equanimity about the events that have befallen me. The more I plunge into a story and experience the suffering, empathize with the anguish, the more I expel my own personal pain. I cannot think of a better way to spend my time than to explore and divine my inner mental, psychological and emotional states, for shortly I will be gone with the wind. As I see the “weather” about me, the climate conditions that spin about the tops of mountain ranges and oceans,the flying scud, I realize the puke of social weather –events, social media, the morons that rule and defame and kill are really “storms” that are all peripheral to who I am. I believe there is no meaning to life, a philosopher’s charade. It is in meaninglessness that I dwell and I am now quite use to it. I find no meaning in meaninglessness. It ain’t that simple.
I feel some stories are good, some so so, some I don’t know if they work or not. The second part of my writer’s life will be to revise, revise and revise. And then revise again and again. When all that is done, I may still have a piece of dreck on my hands. But it is my dreck, and I fashioned it. The carpenter planes, the farrier shoes the horse, and the writer crafts a tale. My life, of late, has become a mystery once more to me. Realizing that once again I am perplexed and stymied by personal family issues which I will not share here, I face once again a kind of living agony of knowing how ignorant I really am of self and other, of the inner world I live in. Once again I have to put on the harness and plow my way through the field for what I once thought was plowed land is really virgin sod. I am feeling a sadness today that cannot be shared but only felt. When I make my way through it, I may be left with nothing except, perhaps, the finer particles, of human interaction. The sadness speaks of no resolution, no finality, no making its way through things. Like the Holocaust, it has no meaning but only the weight of an immense suffering. I will prevail.
Adieu.
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