To get anywhere in New Orleans you have to make an absurd number of U-turns. A few days ago, I thought this might Mean something and so I tell everyone, "You know, you have to make a lot of U-turns here." Most people agree with me, but few speculate.
There's not enough time to figure this out.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Season Shift
Two days ago, the weather broke. That afternoon was hot and humid and a sudden downpour caused the temperature to plummet 30 degrees and there it's stayed ever since. This is a bit ironic since I was thinking the other day how it did not feel at all like fall. I was losing days, weeks, a season because I wasn't cold. New Orleans decided to oblige.
I think that this city functions on serendipity. The other day I tried biking from the Center Business District to the Marigny so I could settle down in a little coffee shop to write application essays. Everything was going well until I hit the bent elbow of St. Claude and became hopelessly lost for an hour. With these labyrinthine one-way streets, you can circle around your destination for hours and never find it. What's worse is that everything now is familiar to me, the landmarks and street names, but I cannot understand how they fit together. It's like a puzzle that makes a picture but the pieces are cut wrong. When I was on the verge of giving up I just happened to glance over my shoulder and see the sign I was looking for, "Who Dat Cafe."
Everyone is stuck in a malaise. My roommates, my coworkers, my friends are all suffering from a bad cold that's lasted weeks. It's as if the weather crawled under everyone's skin before finding its way into the wind.
The other day I went to another coffee shop on Magazine with my roommates, L and J. We drove down the interstate and I said, "Someone last night said that the interstate looks like a matchbox set. I think it looks more like waterslides."
"I can see that," L said.
"All New Orleans is a toy."
L looked out across the lights of the Central Business District and the illuminated crown of the Superdome. "You know, New Orleans does look beautiful at night."
I laughed. "That's like a party insult. New Orleans, you're beautiful in the dark."
"Sam, you should write that down," J said.
After we parked we walked through a residential area that looked very Midwestern. There were Halloween decorations everywhere. I forgot Halloween is coming.
I think that this city functions on serendipity. The other day I tried biking from the Center Business District to the Marigny so I could settle down in a little coffee shop to write application essays. Everything was going well until I hit the bent elbow of St. Claude and became hopelessly lost for an hour. With these labyrinthine one-way streets, you can circle around your destination for hours and never find it. What's worse is that everything now is familiar to me, the landmarks and street names, but I cannot understand how they fit together. It's like a puzzle that makes a picture but the pieces are cut wrong. When I was on the verge of giving up I just happened to glance over my shoulder and see the sign I was looking for, "Who Dat Cafe."
Everyone is stuck in a malaise. My roommates, my coworkers, my friends are all suffering from a bad cold that's lasted weeks. It's as if the weather crawled under everyone's skin before finding its way into the wind.
The other day I went to another coffee shop on Magazine with my roommates, L and J. We drove down the interstate and I said, "Someone last night said that the interstate looks like a matchbox set. I think it looks more like waterslides."
"I can see that," L said.
"All New Orleans is a toy."
L looked out across the lights of the Central Business District and the illuminated crown of the Superdome. "You know, New Orleans does look beautiful at night."
I laughed. "That's like a party insult. New Orleans, you're beautiful in the dark."
"Sam, you should write that down," J said.
After we parked we walked through a residential area that looked very Midwestern. There were Halloween decorations everywhere. I forgot Halloween is coming.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Like Kafka, Man
About a month before I came back to America from my year abroad in Germany I the most Kafkaesque mugging I've ever heard of. It was about three in the morning and the evening should have been winding down, but the streets of Freiburg were unusually crowded because of a techno festival. I was feeling ambitious because I was wearing a suit jacket and my Venetian hat. M joined me outside the bar where our friends had taken up residence for the remainder of the evening and, in the spirit of things, I invited him to a friendly fight.
To anyone else, it probably looked like a real fight, but we were having a good time. Once upon a time it would have been considered noble. If only we could have had sabres, then there would have been a very traditional duel in the street over whose honor neither of us could have said.
Two large men, on the other hand, took it the wrong way. They shoved Max and I apart and cornered us.
"Why are you fighting?" said one. We'll call him A.
"Why are you fighting?" said the other. We'll call him B.
"We're just messing around," M said.
"Yeah, come on. He's my friend. Let's have a drink," I said, gesturing to the nearest bar.
"Why were you fighting?" said A.
"He asked you why you were fighting," B insisted, turning on me.
"He's my friend..." I said slowly.
"And you fight your friends?" A said.
"Occasionally," I said.
"Is that the way to treat a friend?" B asked and looked at A for help.
"That's no way to treat a friend," A replied, sagely.
"I thought not."
"Uh, guys...?" M said.
Their attention turned away from me for a moment and the three spoke in rapid German. M looked worried. Briefly, we managed to stand side by side and he muttered, "We should go, now."
It was about that moment when I noticed that A and B were both wearing navy blue, three-piece business suits. They looked like they had walked out of a conference. Their cufflinks shone like stars and they both wore scarlet neckties.
A snatched my hat away and put it on his head. It had a comical effect since his head was much larger than mine, but he still looked very proud of himself.
"Do I look good in the hat?" A asked.
"You look very good in the hat," B said.
A struck a Humphrey Bogart pose.
"Uh, can I have my hat back?" I asked.
"I like the hat," A said and turned away. He contemplated the crowd and the world, like a movie star.
"He says he likes the hat," B explained.
I was beginning to suspect that A and B were, in fact the same person. One ego complimenting the other. After M tried in vane to snatch the hat back we began to settle on terms.
"Two euros," said B, finally taking initiative.
"Fine," I said.
He looked at me for a moment, startled. I had spoken out of script. "Five euros," he said.
"You said two."
"I said five."
"Three."
"Five."
"Two?"
"Five."
"Damn."
A turned around, gave me a pitying look and slapped me across the face. Obviously I had missed the point.
"What did I say?" I asked.
"You can't bid down," he said.
"Why not?"
"You're supposed to lose," A said.
"You're supposed to lose," B assured me.
I handed over five euros in coins and they counted them carefully. A handed my hat back and said, "It was a pleasure doing business with you." Then he and B disappeared into the crowd.
"Did that just happen?" I asked.
About a week later, still shaken, I related this story to my friend, S. We were sitting at a cafe and when I said, "He said, 'I like the hat,' and the other says, 'He says he likes the hat.'" S started laughing uncontrollably.
When S finally composed himself, he said, "It's just so ridiculous Like Kafka, man."
I agreed and laughed. We sat around for hours nursing the cheapest cups of coffee available. I budgeted enough to leave a tip.
To anyone else, it probably looked like a real fight, but we were having a good time. Once upon a time it would have been considered noble. If only we could have had sabres, then there would have been a very traditional duel in the street over whose honor neither of us could have said.
Two large men, on the other hand, took it the wrong way. They shoved Max and I apart and cornered us.
"Why are you fighting?" said one. We'll call him A.
"Why are you fighting?" said the other. We'll call him B.
"We're just messing around," M said.
"Yeah, come on. He's my friend. Let's have a drink," I said, gesturing to the nearest bar.
"Why were you fighting?" said A.
"He asked you why you were fighting," B insisted, turning on me.
"He's my friend..." I said slowly.
"And you fight your friends?" A said.
"Occasionally," I said.
"Is that the way to treat a friend?" B asked and looked at A for help.
"That's no way to treat a friend," A replied, sagely.
"I thought not."
"Uh, guys...?" M said.
Their attention turned away from me for a moment and the three spoke in rapid German. M looked worried. Briefly, we managed to stand side by side and he muttered, "We should go, now."
It was about that moment when I noticed that A and B were both wearing navy blue, three-piece business suits. They looked like they had walked out of a conference. Their cufflinks shone like stars and they both wore scarlet neckties.
A snatched my hat away and put it on his head. It had a comical effect since his head was much larger than mine, but he still looked very proud of himself.
"Do I look good in the hat?" A asked.
"You look very good in the hat," B said.
A struck a Humphrey Bogart pose.
"Uh, can I have my hat back?" I asked.
"I like the hat," A said and turned away. He contemplated the crowd and the world, like a movie star.
"He says he likes the hat," B explained.
I was beginning to suspect that A and B were, in fact the same person. One ego complimenting the other. After M tried in vane to snatch the hat back we began to settle on terms.
"Two euros," said B, finally taking initiative.
"Fine," I said.
He looked at me for a moment, startled. I had spoken out of script. "Five euros," he said.
"You said two."
"I said five."
"Three."
"Five."
"Two?"
"Five."
"Damn."
A turned around, gave me a pitying look and slapped me across the face. Obviously I had missed the point.
"What did I say?" I asked.
"You can't bid down," he said.
"Why not?"
"You're supposed to lose," A said.
"You're supposed to lose," B assured me.
I handed over five euros in coins and they counted them carefully. A handed my hat back and said, "It was a pleasure doing business with you." Then he and B disappeared into the crowd.
"Did that just happen?" I asked.
About a week later, still shaken, I related this story to my friend, S. We were sitting at a cafe and when I said, "He said, 'I like the hat,' and the other says, 'He says he likes the hat.'" S started laughing uncontrollably.
When S finally composed himself, he said, "It's just so ridiculous Like Kafka, man."
I agreed and laughed. We sat around for hours nursing the cheapest cups of coffee available. I budgeted enough to leave a tip.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Scars
There's a scar on my head from where my sister hit me with a rock. When I was three and she was five we were camping and she decided that she wanted to throw a rock just as I was running in front of her. I've never seen this scar, but people Tell me it's there.
Two years ago I got "remember" tattooed to my left wrist and the first "r" healed into a tiny, raised scar like braille. I can read "r" by touch.
A few months ago, Reflex made me catch a broken pint glass. If I open my hand wide I can see a thin white line, like a Smile. It arcs upward to the first joint of my thumb where I can still see a raised scar from when my sister closed the metal joint of a reclining chair on it. That's the first time I can remember Bleeding.
In a creative writing class I sat between two women and we were on friendly terms. They were good writers. It wasn't until spring warmed up and both started wearing t-shirts that I saw the woman on my right had scars all along her left wrist "the right way." The woman on my left had raised, horizontal scars all up and down each arm.
After that day in class I went and met K at Aspekt Cafe. I told her about creative writing. She nodded and said, "Sometimes those last your whole life."
Today C drove me to deliver a grant to the Catholic Charities Archdiocese of New Orleans. The text was well over a hundred pages long and I spent 10AM to 11AM meticulously putting together all three copies from about twenty individual documents. My heart raced so badly I was afraid someone might hear. After we delivered the grant we drove back over the industrial canal, left Orleans and entered St. Bernard. C indicated a scar on her right hand that she got in Haiti.
"I hope it doesn't fade," she said. "I'm proud of my scars."
"I have one on the back of my head," I said.
"How'd you get that?" she asked.
"My sister tried to kill me."
"Oh?"
"It's a joke. We were camping and she threw a rock and it hit my head. I nearly died that trip. Not from the rock, but from drowning." I said, "I've nearly drowned a lot and that's probably why I don't like to swim."
Two years ago I got "remember" tattooed to my left wrist and the first "r" healed into a tiny, raised scar like braille. I can read "r" by touch.
A few months ago, Reflex made me catch a broken pint glass. If I open my hand wide I can see a thin white line, like a Smile. It arcs upward to the first joint of my thumb where I can still see a raised scar from when my sister closed the metal joint of a reclining chair on it. That's the first time I can remember Bleeding.
In a creative writing class I sat between two women and we were on friendly terms. They were good writers. It wasn't until spring warmed up and both started wearing t-shirts that I saw the woman on my right had scars all along her left wrist "the right way." The woman on my left had raised, horizontal scars all up and down each arm.
After that day in class I went and met K at Aspekt Cafe. I told her about creative writing. She nodded and said, "Sometimes those last your whole life."
Today C drove me to deliver a grant to the Catholic Charities Archdiocese of New Orleans. The text was well over a hundred pages long and I spent 10AM to 11AM meticulously putting together all three copies from about twenty individual documents. My heart raced so badly I was afraid someone might hear. After we delivered the grant we drove back over the industrial canal, left Orleans and entered St. Bernard. C indicated a scar on her right hand that she got in Haiti.
"I hope it doesn't fade," she said. "I'm proud of my scars."
"I have one on the back of my head," I said.
"How'd you get that?" she asked.
"My sister tried to kill me."
"Oh?"
"It's a joke. We were camping and she threw a rock and it hit my head. I nearly died that trip. Not from the rock, but from drowning." I said, "I've nearly drowned a lot and that's probably why I don't like to swim."
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Wanderlust
Last weekend I went to a Welcome Home party for one of my organization's clients. She lives far east of new Orleans proper in a small town called Poydras. To get there you have to follow the River downstream through the city, past all fixtures of urbanity to a long stretch of road beneath a canopy of ancient oaks covered in Spanish moss.
I have not yet seen the River, just evidence. Every day I drive over the Industrial Canal to get to work. On the way to the Welcome Home party I couldn't see over the levees, but I could see freighters sitting like titans in what looked like the middle of a tree spotted field.
At the party I talked with the homeowner's niece. She studies the effects of the oil spill on the local fishing and shrimping industry for a nearby university. Fishing and shrimping are the only industries worth the name in Poydras and the surrounding communities. It's been that way for generations. The homeowner’s niece said that her father and grandfather had been shrimpers.
"Do you live in Poydras?" I asked.
"Not far. One of my cousins lives in the next town over in Violet -- he'll be here in about an hour. My other cousin lives in Chalmette and our mother lives up the street."
She enumerated a few more family members within walking distance. One of my coworkers, a New Orleanian, said that she'd been born a few streets away.
My parents' siblings are scattered across the country and their children across the world. Most of us live in the Midwest, but no one lives down the street from a blood relation. It occurred to me that this was an expectation, or at least not an unusual occurrence, to leave home and find a new one Somewhere Else.
I told this to the homeowner's niece. She nodded. "It's a big deal when someone moves away. It's just not something you do. Not something I'd ever do."
"People came to the Midwest to get away from people. For one reason or another," I said. "Maybe wanderlust has just been passed down through the blood."
"Maybe," she said.
"That's why I'm here, at least."
Last night I went to a friend's place and didn't leave until late at night. Biking back I became disconcerted, unsure if I was heading in the right direction. People say that the only way to find your way in New Orleans is figure out where you are in relation to the River. The River is always east in Iowa. Beyond that, I couldn't figure out any possible way that the River could be useful.
I decided to leave it to trust. Between muscle memory and landmarks I found my way home following neither the directions I was given nor my typical route. The city is starting to take shape in my head.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Grandfatherness
During the AmeriCorps orientation our employer told us about the landlord for our business office. It's part of the Spiel. Anyone on the development team must be able to tell volunteers about how Mr. F was a fireman for 20 years, then a fisherman for another 20, retired and opened up an appliance repair shop so that he could spend his old age tinkering with things. He lived within five minutes of all his grandkids.
Katrina hit and his home - now our business office - flooded to the second floor. He was picked up by another local with a boat and taken to the roof of a bank where he and two hundred others awaited Rescue. It took five days for help to arrive in the form of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. It's as much a depressing story about America as it is a sad story about one person's trial.
Meeting Mr. F was surprising. He's a heavy, crass, old man who loves to wander around the office, hassle us, hit on the women, and give us all nicknames (I'm Uncle Sam, or Mark, or Simon, I'm not sure which). He speaks with a thick New Orleanian accent that sounds more Bostonian than Southern. Backwards, a little racist, perpetually telling strange stories, and somehow amazingly endearing he reminds everyone of his or her grandfather. The man embodies some sort of platonic form of Grandfatherness. He reminds me of my grandfather and there is absolutely no resemblance. For one of the other AmeriCorops members, Leisl, the resemblance to her deceased grandfather is so strong that she told me when she first met Mr. F she nearly started crying.
Leisl told me recently how she spoke to another New Orleanian, M, about the future of the city. M told her, "New Orleans is dead," and that sooner or later another storm will come through, destroy the city again and no one will have the energy to come back. This is, evidently a common feeling among the natives.
But, Leisl asked, then why bother rebuilding? Why come back in the first place if it's just a lost cause?
"Because," M said. People have lived here for generations and generations. New Orleans has been a music and culture center for America for three hundred years. People have lived, loved, worked, and died on this land for centuries. There are so many bones and stories here. That's worth the effort. And it struck me, as Leisl told me this, that the people who come down here to rebuild, and those that came back, too, all talk about New Orleans like a Grandfather.
Katrina hit and his home - now our business office - flooded to the second floor. He was picked up by another local with a boat and taken to the roof of a bank where he and two hundred others awaited Rescue. It took five days for help to arrive in the form of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. It's as much a depressing story about America as it is a sad story about one person's trial.
Meeting Mr. F was surprising. He's a heavy, crass, old man who loves to wander around the office, hassle us, hit on the women, and give us all nicknames (I'm Uncle Sam, or Mark, or Simon, I'm not sure which). He speaks with a thick New Orleanian accent that sounds more Bostonian than Southern. Backwards, a little racist, perpetually telling strange stories, and somehow amazingly endearing he reminds everyone of his or her grandfather. The man embodies some sort of platonic form of Grandfatherness. He reminds me of my grandfather and there is absolutely no resemblance. For one of the other AmeriCorops members, Leisl, the resemblance to her deceased grandfather is so strong that she told me when she first met Mr. F she nearly started crying.
Leisl told me recently how she spoke to another New Orleanian, M, about the future of the city. M told her, "New Orleans is dead," and that sooner or later another storm will come through, destroy the city again and no one will have the energy to come back. This is, evidently a common feeling among the natives.
But, Leisl asked, then why bother rebuilding? Why come back in the first place if it's just a lost cause?
"Because," M said. People have lived here for generations and generations. New Orleans has been a music and culture center for America for three hundred years. People have lived, loved, worked, and died on this land for centuries. There are so many bones and stories here. That's worth the effort. And it struck me, as Leisl told me this, that the people who come down here to rebuild, and those that came back, too, all talk about New Orleans like a Grandfather.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Premise
It's only fair to admit that everyone warned me it was a bad idea to spend the week alone at the Body House. But I have a deadline, I told them. You're spending the week at a secluded, New England mansion where a family was murdered, among other things, and it's rumored to be haunted, they said. They said, This is not the best way to meet a deadline. You've never met my editor, I told them.
At first I was able to get a lot of work done and the house was quiet and peaceful. It is my understanding that this is the way of things. On the second day, though, on my walk through the woods I saw an apparition of a hanged man, eyes bulging, tongue lolling, swinging in the trail in front of me. That was inconvenient. I shrugged and decided that I'd have to skip the morning walks from now on. It was more time to write, anyway.
The problem was I was out of ideas. The story wasn't going anywhere. For five months solid I'd been hammering out chapters about the Smith family tragedy. They were losing the family farm, John was an alcoholic, Shawna was seized by wanderlust, Lydia was estranged, and Simon sat at the window all day drinking chamomile tea speaking to no one. It's boring, they told me. But I knew better. Even so, the sixth month of the endeavor came and I hit a wall when Shawna asked for a divorce and John sat at the kitchen table speechless. That's what I couldn't get past. That was the trouble, the divorce.
That and the blood curdling screams from the basement that started at 10:37 exactly every night and lasted until dawn. On the fourth day I improvised ear plugs from Q-tips, but that only helped so much. I've never been a sound sleeper.
On the third day, no progress made, I started reading some old journals that the last occupant had left behind. It all started out very normal, all about the life of a secluded heiress in New England. The longer I read, though, the more intelligible the writing became and it was frequently interrupted by archaic symbols and abstract drawings of death and destruction. Some of it was written in blood. The diarist wrote of nightmares that haunted her through the day, of a Dark one that feeds on pain and anguish that would consume the world. I wasn't impressed. Clearly a wanna-be hack or cartoonist. No Anne Frank's diary to be found in that house.
I made good progress on the fourth day. John spoke up and told Shawna to leave and then went on a binge. Lydia, the prodigal, finally revealed that while she was away in Europe she became romantically involved with a woman, had a breakdown due to her Christian upbringing, and returned home out of an act of desperation. Simon was still sitting at the window with his tea, but you couldn't have everything.
I was feeling pretty good about myself and felt the urge to masturbate. Just then, though, the door to the study creaked open and in the gloom of the cellar I saw two blood red eyes staring at me. There were things watching me all over the house, I realized. I've never been an exhibitionist and masturbation is really a private act so I just decided to call it an early night.
On the fifth night the screaming stopped. This was a welcome relief for all of five minutes until I heard someone tramping, ostentatiously up the stairs. A moment later a slender woman as pale as death flung open my door. She then proceeded, in a shrill, scratchy voice to tell me how her twin brother had raped her and then locked her in the basement, telling everyone that she was mad and then, after years of seclusion and psychological torture, he killed her.
I listened as best I could. After you get published, people do this to you all the time. They tell you sob stories hoping you'll write about it so they can brag to their friends that such and scuh book was based on them. Ridiculous. Anyway, the pale girls' story wasn't worth the lost sleep. No one believes stories like that because that's not life.
On the sixth and last day I was able to finish the draft despite untenable circumstances. Just after I started working, blood began to drip from the walls. It started as a trickle and then a steady stream. It wasn't long before the house was flooded and I had to use the desk as a work space and ad hoc life boat. I kept telling myself I didn't deserve this and powered through.
The family had called an emotional armistice in order to get through the business of selling the farm. In cleaning out all the family possessions they slowly began to remember good times, but it wasn't enough to heal old wounds. In the final chapter, the family is staying in the empty house one last night when an electrical fire starts. They all get out safely, and the story ends with all the family watching their home and financial security burn to cinders.
It was a day early, but I decided that staying another night at the Body House would just mean another night of lost sleep so I drove back to Iowa. My editor, when she got the novel, sent me a dubious email. When I asked her for clarification she said it was boring and I told her she could fuck herself.
A week passed and the bills came. My bag was empty and after some desperate pleading I got my editor to talk to me again. How do you feel about horror? I asked her. She said that I should stay out of her personal life. I told her I was bored and angry and frustrated and haunted. I told her how a tornado took my house when I was sixteen, every woman I've ever dated was named Sarah, I lived as a woman for a year, I declared bankruptcy once, I am a rock-paper-scissors international champion, and how could life be so unbelievable?
She asked, Have you ever considered writing nonficiton?
At first I was able to get a lot of work done and the house was quiet and peaceful. It is my understanding that this is the way of things. On the second day, though, on my walk through the woods I saw an apparition of a hanged man, eyes bulging, tongue lolling, swinging in the trail in front of me. That was inconvenient. I shrugged and decided that I'd have to skip the morning walks from now on. It was more time to write, anyway.
The problem was I was out of ideas. The story wasn't going anywhere. For five months solid I'd been hammering out chapters about the Smith family tragedy. They were losing the family farm, John was an alcoholic, Shawna was seized by wanderlust, Lydia was estranged, and Simon sat at the window all day drinking chamomile tea speaking to no one. It's boring, they told me. But I knew better. Even so, the sixth month of the endeavor came and I hit a wall when Shawna asked for a divorce and John sat at the kitchen table speechless. That's what I couldn't get past. That was the trouble, the divorce.
That and the blood curdling screams from the basement that started at 10:37 exactly every night and lasted until dawn. On the fourth day I improvised ear plugs from Q-tips, but that only helped so much. I've never been a sound sleeper.
On the third day, no progress made, I started reading some old journals that the last occupant had left behind. It all started out very normal, all about the life of a secluded heiress in New England. The longer I read, though, the more intelligible the writing became and it was frequently interrupted by archaic symbols and abstract drawings of death and destruction. Some of it was written in blood. The diarist wrote of nightmares that haunted her through the day, of a Dark one that feeds on pain and anguish that would consume the world. I wasn't impressed. Clearly a wanna-be hack or cartoonist. No Anne Frank's diary to be found in that house.
I made good progress on the fourth day. John spoke up and told Shawna to leave and then went on a binge. Lydia, the prodigal, finally revealed that while she was away in Europe she became romantically involved with a woman, had a breakdown due to her Christian upbringing, and returned home out of an act of desperation. Simon was still sitting at the window with his tea, but you couldn't have everything.
I was feeling pretty good about myself and felt the urge to masturbate. Just then, though, the door to the study creaked open and in the gloom of the cellar I saw two blood red eyes staring at me. There were things watching me all over the house, I realized. I've never been an exhibitionist and masturbation is really a private act so I just decided to call it an early night.
On the fifth night the screaming stopped. This was a welcome relief for all of five minutes until I heard someone tramping, ostentatiously up the stairs. A moment later a slender woman as pale as death flung open my door. She then proceeded, in a shrill, scratchy voice to tell me how her twin brother had raped her and then locked her in the basement, telling everyone that she was mad and then, after years of seclusion and psychological torture, he killed her.
I listened as best I could. After you get published, people do this to you all the time. They tell you sob stories hoping you'll write about it so they can brag to their friends that such and scuh book was based on them. Ridiculous. Anyway, the pale girls' story wasn't worth the lost sleep. No one believes stories like that because that's not life.
On the sixth and last day I was able to finish the draft despite untenable circumstances. Just after I started working, blood began to drip from the walls. It started as a trickle and then a steady stream. It wasn't long before the house was flooded and I had to use the desk as a work space and ad hoc life boat. I kept telling myself I didn't deserve this and powered through.
The family had called an emotional armistice in order to get through the business of selling the farm. In cleaning out all the family possessions they slowly began to remember good times, but it wasn't enough to heal old wounds. In the final chapter, the family is staying in the empty house one last night when an electrical fire starts. They all get out safely, and the story ends with all the family watching their home and financial security burn to cinders.
It was a day early, but I decided that staying another night at the Body House would just mean another night of lost sleep so I drove back to Iowa. My editor, when she got the novel, sent me a dubious email. When I asked her for clarification she said it was boring and I told her she could fuck herself.
A week passed and the bills came. My bag was empty and after some desperate pleading I got my editor to talk to me again. How do you feel about horror? I asked her. She said that I should stay out of her personal life. I told her I was bored and angry and frustrated and haunted. I told her how a tornado took my house when I was sixteen, every woman I've ever dated was named Sarah, I lived as a woman for a year, I declared bankruptcy once, I am a rock-paper-scissors international champion, and how could life be so unbelievable?
She asked, Have you ever considered writing nonficiton?
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