The Liar's Diary

Tuesday, January 29, 2008

I know the title of this post sounds like it might be about finding yet another piece of my mother's psyche buried on our basement (first the therapy tapes, now the diary!) but alas, it is not. (I promise to write more about the tapes once I can bring myself to listen to them.)

Today's post is one of hundreds you'll see if you're trolling around the blogosphere (stop procrastinating now!) about a writer named Patry Francis and her novel, The Liar's Diary, which is being released in paperback today. Patry--who I do not know--has been diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer and is busy fighting for her health, rather than on the road promoting her book. A call went out to writers, bloggers, publishing industry people, asking if we could all spread the word about Patry's book. And it strikes me that this is what community is all about.

Memories, Dreams, Reflections

Monday, January 28, 2008

Which is, of course, the title of Carl Jung's memoir. Though to call it memoir isn't quite right, because as Jung writes himself, he is not interested in memory per se, but rather in "interior happenings", or the unconscious. He writes:

"All other memories of travels, people, and my surroundings have paled beside these interior happenings...everything else has lost importance in comparison. Similarly, other people are established inalienably in my memories only if their names were entered in the scrolls of my destiny from the beginning, so that encountering them was at the same time a kind of recollection."

Reading this, I felt a shock of recognition. That feeling of having known someone before, of an intense familiarity--has happened a few times in my life. It certainly was the case when I met Michael. "There you are," the words rang through my mind, my heart, my very body when we first shook hands. It was clear, irrefutable. I knew him already. But how? And from where? I don't know what I think of any of this. Jews don't believe in past lives--do they? I find myself thinking a lot, these days, about the whole notion of karma. Had Michael and I already been together? Or kept apart? Did we have unfinished business? What does destiny mean? Is it something over which we have no control, or something we create for ourselves as we move through life? Here's another quote, this one from Rabbi Hillel:

"Watch your thoughts; they become your words. Watch your words; they become your actions. Watch your actions; they become your habits. Watch your habits; they become your character. Watch your character, for it will become your destiny."

I find this a more comforting idea, because it makes me feel like I have some say in the matter. When I sit and attempt to meditate, as I have been doing most days, I see that my mind is basically a dumping ground for thousands of random thoughts; if I don't observe them on a daily basis, I am at the mercy of them. They will lead me around and around like a dog chasing its tail.

Gotta make that hotel reservation.
Did I write that check for the sweater?
Jacob needs new underwear.
Can we afford to pave the driveway this spring?
Michael needs a colonoscopy.
When's the writers strike gonna end?
I need a haircut.

This is a typical chain of thoughts (no wonder they call it monkey mind!) during meditation, and it goes nowhere. Is this what Jung means by "interior happenings"? I know this much: I know that, for me, writing a book is an act of faith. In fact, for many years it is as close to an understanding of faith as I have been able to get. When I am in front of the page, my thoughts become less chaotic. My mind grows silent. Something emerges.

Beginning

Saturday, January 12, 2008

I think it was Joseph Brodsky who said "Endings can be difficult, middles are nowhere to be found, but oh, to begin, to begin, to begin..." A novelist friend passed that quote along to me many years ago--writers pass these tidbits of wisdom along to each other like talismans, we hold onto them the way a devout person might hold onto a scrap of prayer--and I remember feeling relieved that Brodsky, that most writers, have this difficult relationship to beginning something new.

As I embark on my new book, Devotion, I am reminded anew of how hard it is. Occasionally I've had a student ask me whether she should become a writer. Most memorably, once one of my Columbia students presented me with her dilemma: writing, or investment banking.

Investment banking! I practically yelled at the poor thing. By all means, investment banking! And what I meant is this: if you think you have a choice in the matter, choose the other thing. Being a writer isn't a choice. It's just what you are, like it or not.

I forget, each time. (In this way, beginning a book is a bit like childbirth. Who would do it again if they remembered?) I forget that a year passed during the time I tried and failed to begin Slow Motion, and that the click happened when finally a journalist friend suggested to me that, since it was non-fiction, a memoir, which meant I already knew the story, I should outline it. I forget that when I began Family History , I thought the first thirty pages were so boring, so awful that I deleted them from my computer, and eventually had go fish the one hard copy out of the garbage. I remember that by the time I began Black & White, my head felt like it was about to snap off my neck I was so wound up. And so, now I am here. Searching for the way back inside, to the place where I can think, to the place where I can allow myself to feel whatever is necessary in order to find this book.