I’ve been thinking a lot about nonfiction vs. fiction. My stories always begin from an experience, a thread of conversation, a feeling I can’t quite pin down. The unresolved. The uncomfortable. The stuff of life. My life. I am not … Continue reading
Sometimes you call out to the universe, and the universe answers back. It echoes from the canyon, reverberates over hills, hinting you might be onto something. I’ve always been a magical thinker.
Yesterday, after months of planning this project and finally beginning, a gift arrived in the mail from an old and distant friend. Lucia Berlin’s story collection A MANUAL FOR CLEANING WOMEN, sent by my friend Jenni. We met in art school and then maintained an epic correspondence. This was almost twenty years ago, the days of actual letter writing. More than a hundred letters. Back then I was a painter, and I pictured them culminating as an art installation, papering the walls of a gallery. Now she’s a literary agent and we glimpse each other on Facebook. In her note, she said the book made her think of me, so she put it in the mail. It was funny to see her tiny handwriting again, indelible and alive.
I’m only two stories in and I already feel like, I needed this book, I was meant to be reading this book. It’s the kind of writing that makes me want to write. From the first story in the collection, ANGEL’S LAUNDROMAT:
I looked into my own eyes and back down at my hands. Horrid age spots, two scars. Nervous, lonely hands. I could see children and men and gardens in my hands.
My magical thinking goes far past echoes from the universe and unexpected books in the mail, but I have a toddler painting at the kitchen table (read: painting the kitchen table) and I’m counting the hours until my husband is home from a business trip to Florida, so that I can perhaps flee the house, if only for a short while.