Chapter One
There were many things I have never understood because they seemed boring or useless or possibly beyond my intelligence although I am very smart, almost a genius according to one childhood tester but then again, I had talked nonstop and managed to persuade the nice lady to skip most of the math. I don’t understand math, especially algebra, and things that fit into each other, which way the pulleys moved if they were tugged, and how to measure anything. I don’t understand football or cars or war, but I understand refugees and I would count most men in that category, forced to suppress their feelings, their love for male friends and their fear. I am excellent in a crisis, calm and kind and efficient.
Read More
Weaving and Writing
The other day in weaving class I went to the back of my loom and tried to squint at the previous week’s work. I was worried that my hitherto "intuitive" yarn choosing might be lacking a connection with the previous yarn pulling and this could jar or fail. As you weave the piece rolls up upon itself and you can only look at sections.
We all have weaknesses — in writing I am bad at transitions. Often a character might be swimming off the coast of Sicily and then, the next day, walking down a Manhattan Avenue. When I’m on fire while writing I don’t want to stop long enough to process the journey, to leave signposts that explain what has occurred. Intuitively I am sure she is now meant to be dressed for work, not in a bathing suit but intuitiveness can’t be transmitted in a piece of writing. Knowing a common flaw in my writing is key to successful revision. Instead of tweaking these parts separately, I create a transition to America from Italy and move on.
Read More
Groucho and Me
On the second day of the Creative non-fiction writing conference, I totaled my car. I think it was my fault. I think I might have started to turn right on a green and the light turned red while I was turning but I don't know. Two cars hit me. One, a huge jeep with two guys (bros) on their way to play golf. The other, a hysterical girl who kept screaming, "This is my boyfriend's car!" That was the extent of the drama. A gentle, nice policeman arrived and asked if we were all okay and didn't react when I couldn't find my driver's license which, as it turned out, I had left in Chicago.
Read More
