"What is it like being a published author?
It feels like my heart is out there on the page."
― Alice Blanchard
"What is it like being a published author?
It feels like my heart is out there on the page."
― Alice Blanchard
"What Would You Wear To Your Own Funeral?"
Here’s what I would wear.
One. My 1982 Lee straightleg jeans. Lee jeans, not Levi’s. They stretched everywhere I moved. They’re faded now, with tiny moth holes. I can barely get them over my hips. But these are the jeans I wore when my husband and I first got married and were just learning about each other.
Two. My Book Culture T-shirt. Book Culture is a bookstore on the upper East side of New York. I’ve never been there. I must go some day. My husband went there while I was home writing my new book (when you’re a writer, sometimes it seems like you never leave home). He surprised me with the T-shirt as a gift. I wear it to sleep at night. I wear it when I write. It gets stinky, but it gets softer each time I wash it. It’s as comfortable a thing as can possibly exist. I am a novelist, and I belong to the book culture. I’ll wear it to my grave.
Three. I’ll have on a black winter coat, quilted and super soft, plush and fleecy. I wore it all over London while on vacation there in the nineties. My husband and I had so much fun. We picnicked in Hampstead Heath, and a pit bull with brown spots and a broad smile ran across the entire length of the field to steal our Brie cheese, and it was so funny we let him have it. He wanted it so damned badly. He deserved it. We took pictures. We don’t have a dog. We have a picture of this dog. He will be in my coat pocket.
Four. Many years ago, my father went on a sabbatical to New Mexico, chasing his dreams. He joined an archeological dig in the desert, and after the dig, he came to visit me in Los Angeles and pulled a necklace out of his dusty backpack and gave it to me. It’s Navajo. Hand-strung. Rough pieces of turquoise. Clumps of nickel silver. Blue hearts and squash blossoms. He bought it cheap but this necklace is as precious as my memories of him.
Five. On my right ear I’ll wear a single vintage drop-dangle earring of a Victorian woman’s hand. Tarnished silver. Brass earwire. Palmistry jewelry. Just the one earring. I lost the other one at a job I hated. Actually, I lost it walking around a nondescript haunted neighborhood for an hour because I couldn’t bear to eat lunch with the lifers. Finding that earring became an obsession during my remaining days at that shitty job. I never found it. I’ve had some good jobs but also many shitty jobs in my life. Every single shitty job I’ve ever had has made me a better writer. Everything is an opportunity. To learn. To grow. To dream. To scream and write it all down. I remember when my husband gave me the earrings. I opened the pillow gift box. They were exquisite—the shiny, delicate hands. Now her hand is open, fingers outstretched, blackening, oxidized, surface-scratched, soft patina, so beautiful to me.
Six. The cheap beaded bracelet I was wearing when I met my husband for the very first time at college, and I drank too much out of nervousness and got sick to my stomach, and he held my hair while I puked in the toilet, and that’s true love.
Seven. Sunglasses. I love the idea of wearing sunglasses at a funeral. People don’t like it when you wear sunglasses, especially if they can’t see your eyes. One guy tried to kick me in the head once because I was wearing mirrored shades.
Eight. I’ll be wearing a yellow gold ring with a black onyx stone on the fourth finger of my left hand. It has an Art Deco shank and open-weave mount. My husband found it in an old mason jar filled with wood screws, washers and roofing nails. One day, while visiting his folks, he felt an impulse to rummage around in the basement, and he emptied the jar on a workbench, and out spilled the ring. Had his grandfather hidden it there? Were there other rings in other jars strewn around the old basement? We’ll never know. His parents are gone. The house is gone. But it’s my wedding ring now. It’s magical. I cherish it.
Nine. My beat-up Beatle boots. I wore them to see Patti Smith, The Ramones, The Dead Boys, X, The Pixies, The Smithereens, Til Tuesday, Rash of Stabbings, Mission of Burma, Husker Du. Heels worn down. They make a funny scraping sound when you walk. You can feel the road beneath their soles.
Ten. I’ll be holding a preserved rose flattened between two pieces of cellophane. My husband presented it to me on the morning we got married by a justice of the peace. A single cut flower. A rose bud. We put it in a vase and set it on the coffee table, and by the time the civil ceremony was finished, the rose had blossomed to full bloom in a beam of sunlight. Things like that just don’t happen—until, of course, they do.
What you wear to your own funeral is about who you really are. What you’ve done. Who you loved and were loved by.
This is a love story.
What would you wear to your funeral?
If you liked this, then you might like my new book “A Breath After Drowning.”
Excerpt from “Darkness Peering”
Nicole could count every pore on the boy’s face. A big blue vein stood out on his neck, and he wouldn’t look at her directly. He was taller than her by half a foot, with soft formless features. His dark hair grew out straight but ended in little waves, like the ruffles on a potato chip. His fingernails were dirty and his hands were callused, and he kept glancing at her as if he expected something to happen.
“Feels like I’ve been bad or something,” Nicole confessed.
“Why?” he whispered.
They’d been whispering all afternoon.
THE WALL STREET JOURNAL
Mysteries: Surviving a Trifecta of Traumas
A damaged woman takes on a cold case--the abduction and murder of her younger sister.
By Tom Nolan
April 6, 2018
Boston's Kate Wolfe, the 32-year-old child psychiatrist at the center of Alice Blanchard's terrifying thriller "A Breath After Drowning" (Titan, 441 pages, $14.95), endured a grim childhood. Her mother was committed to an asylum when Kate was 10--and later committed suicide. Kate's younger sister was kidnapped and murdered in a horrific way. Her father retreated into solitude soon after.
But Kate survived her "trifecta of traumas" to devote her adult life to a career helping young people negotiate similar crises--in part as a way of assuaging the guilt she still feels for having left her sister alone the night she was abducted. It is all the more distressing, then, when an emotionally vulnerable teenage patient hangs herself as soon as Kate prepares to leave on a long-deferred vacation. "None of this was your fault," her old mentor tells her. "Sometimes the darkness takes over." In this case, the darkness won't let go. At her patient's funeral, Kate encounters Palmer Dyson, a retired police detective from her hometown back in New Hampshire. Palmer shares his doubts that the man convicted of killing Kate's sister--and soon to be executed--is actually guilty. After meeting the condemned man, Kate begins to have doubts of her own. It could be that the real killer is still at large.
With the ex-cop's guidance, Kate is soon acting like a detective in her own right: poring through old police files, considering alternative scenarios and using her psychiatric training to deduce the identity of someone Palmer is convinced is an undetected serial killer.
Bizarre coincidences and shocking revelations concerning former neighbors and Kate's own family members, as well as the murder of the mother of another one of her patients, cause Kate to question her own hard-earned sanity. But she'll need all her wits about her, and then some, to eventually do battle with one of the most memorable genre villains since Hannibal Lecter.
Write what you fear.
Write what makes you cry.
Write what makes you laugh out loud.
Don't be afraid to reveal yourself.
This is a writer's job.
The German “The Breathtaker” is “Zahn um Zahn” which means “Tooth for Tooth.”
The Dutch “Darkness Peering” is “Onder de Huid” which means “Under the Skin.”
The French “The Breathtaker” is “Le Tueur des Tornades” which means “The Killer of Tornadoes.”
The German “Darkness Peering” is “Der Tod in Deinem Blut” which means “The Death in Your Blood.”
The Italian “The Breathtaker” is “Respiro” which means “Breath.”
The Italian “Darkness Peering” is “Tenebre” which means “Darkness.”
Another German “The Breathtaker” is “Sturmfieber” which means “Storm Fever.”
The Polish “A Breath after Drowning” is “Głód Zabijania” which means “The Hunger For Killing.”
The Spanish “A Breath after Drowning” is “El Aliento de los ahogados” which means “Breath of the Drowned”
The Italian “A Breath after Drowning” is “Un Respiro Nell’Acqua” which means “A Breath In Water.”
“Nothing about the delicately rendered psychological terrors of Alice Blanchard's debut novel, ''Darkness Peering,'' could have prepared us for the howling horrors of THE BREATHTAKER. Set in a region of rural Oklahoma known as Tornado Alley, this gale-force thriller charts the warped progress of a serial killer who strikes only during tornadoes and models his handiwork on their devastation. That should be enough of a charge for one book, but such is Blanchard's artistry that she whips up even more excitement by taking us joy riding with storm chasers who jump into their trucks and ride into the path of the big twisters. ''Heroin for the heartland'' is their catchphrase for storm chasing. As one enthusiast puts it, ''When you chased the wind, the ground fell away from under your feet and you were transported someplace else.''
Charlie Grover, the seasoned police chief of Promise, Okla., joins these daredevils when his 16-year-old daughter is kidnapped by the killer and driven into the eye of a majestic storm -- a plot development that satisfies genre conventions but seems superfluous in a story that gets more blood-pumping effects from its spectacular weather reporting. In truth, Blanchard writes so well that even her quiet descriptions of desolate towns and lonely people are good enough to rattle the rafters.”
By MARILYN STASIO, NY TIMES
Sometimes you wonder—am I a real writer? Do you get the most brilliant ideas when you don’t have a pen or scrap of paper? Then yes, you’re a real writer.
A three-year-old, screaming, and her stern-faced mother saying, “Use your words. Find your words.” Where? How? A vortex of nano-particles choking my throat. Holding my breath until I turned blue.
A skinny dark-haired tomboy, scowling at the world.
I couldn’t spell. I inverted letters on the page. Went became want. Hole became howl. How are you? became Who are you?
I struggled to read. I trudged over to the big round reading table in a pissy mood. All my friends could recite aloud, but when it came my turn, I was quickly overwhelmed by the hieroglyphics drifting across the page.
My teacher would say, “Try again.” Ugh. I developed a stammer.
My father told me not to worry—he’d struggled with reading once, too. He showed me an illustrated book, and inspired, I wrote my own version of Alice in Wonderland. Alice follwo’d the rabbit down a howl. Bown, bown and bown she want.
Awkward and lost. A wildness in my eyes.
Deathly afraid of failing in school, I finally learned how to read by falling in love with the characters in stories. To this day, I can’t explain why or how, but suddenly I was reading everything I could get my hands on. And my imagination soared.
I hated school, but what I really hated was confinement. Dry lectures and big windows with perfect views of blue sky and green grass.
My stomachaches sometimes fooled my mother, and I’d stay home and write.
Skinny, scrawny, too much makeup caked over the eyes. Self-conscious about my K-Mart clothes.
I got my first dictionary. Right away, I looked up dyslexia.
My grandfather once wrote me a check for a million-trillion dollars, which I kept in my coat pocket until my mom made me throw it away. On our walks in the woods, he would make up stories about fairies who lived in the roots of trees. Each time I visited, he would say, “You can have any book in my house.” His books were leather-bound and dusty. He’d flip through the pages and read aloud, and I loved the sound of his voice. He gave me confidence. He made me love words.
I decided. I would write books.
And so I wrote, and when I wasn’t writing, I wasn’t breathing.
Pencil-thin, greasy long hair, distracted smile, rebellious.
I wrote essays about fruit flies and being a nonconformist.
I wandered the halls. I wanted to disappear. Everyone was rushing. Why?
A shallow-breather hiding inside my parka. Impulsive girlie-girl. Creative. Curious.
I had my core group of friends. We hung out together, majoring in alienation. We wrote and read and talked a blue streak. My first writer’s group.
A sullen Bambi lost in the forest. Not always understanding what people were saying but taking things too literally.
I attended college in the city, as far away from the woods and the barns and the cows as possible. I took drugs and drank beer and made new friends and enemies.
My father’s letters to me—meticulously handwritten—would often have words crossed out, with corrected spellings written above them. And sometimes his corrected spellings were misspelled.
I starved myself. I didn’t eat well. I wasn’t sure why. I wrote about my confusion. Cynicism was my core curriculum.
I called home, looking for assurance, full of secrets I couldn’t share with my parents. I was thoroughly down the rabbit hole. My mother and I would talk about practical things.
Then she would hand the phone to Dad.
“Hi,” he would say.
“Hi,” I would say.
“How are you?”
We no longer spoke the same language.
When the conversation was over, I’d say with relief, “I love you, Dad.”
“I love you, honey.”
I’d hang up and write about those things I couldn’t say to him—stories about love and childhood and hometown friends and things I missed and dreams I wished would come true.
I’m a published author. I still struggle.
I’m not sure what my story can teach you.
I just never gave up.
"We passed the joint around, and as it got easier to inhale, I started noticing how the leaves seemed to be falling in slow-motion from the trees. I laughed with my mouth full of smoke. I got all caught up in the way my dark hair rested against my shoulder, like a photographic negative of snow blowing through an open door. My eyes fixed on my friend’s necklace, something I hadn’t noticed before—a tiny gold chain with a gold word at the base of her neck. Aires, gold lassoes for letters, riding her pulse. My thoughts felt about thumb-sized."
THE SMELL OF ROTTEN APPLES
Writer’s rituals have always intrigued me. Stephen King starts his day by eating a piece of cheesecake. Charles Dickens combed his hair obsessively while he wrote. Victor Hugo wrote naked, wrapped in a blanket. James Joyce wrote “Finnegan’s Wake” on pieces of cardboard, using crayons. Truman Capote considered himself a “completely horizontal author” because he couldn’t write unless he was lying down.
My favorite writer’s ritual is Friedrich von Schiller’s. He was the pop star of his time, an 18th-century German poet and the author of Ode to Joy, which Beethoven set to music in the final movement of his Ninth Symphony. Friedrich couldn’t write unless he smelled rotten apples. He hid the fruit in his desk drawer and let it go bad. His wife was appalled by the sweet stench permeating his office, and even his friend Goethe thought it was messed up. But Schiller claimed the aroma heightened his creativity.
I decided to conduct an experiment and see if the smell of rotten apples would be a fruitful or futile contribution to my writing process. Here’s what happened:
Monday, April 2nd:
I buy two Cortland apples and place them in a drawer of my writing desk. I’m excited to try this. It feels like resurrecting a small, odd piece of history.
Wednesday, April 4th:
I open the drawer before I start writing. The apples smell slightly sweeter.
Thursday, April 5th:
Hm. No change. Same color. I smell Graham Crackers, maybe???
Sunday, April 8th:
It’s been a week and they’re still bright red. Still not rotten. I don’t know what they put in apples these days—chemicals to increase their shelf-life, for sure.
Wednesday, April 10th:
I decide these apples are no good, and throw them out. I’m buying new ones.
Thursday, April 11th:
I buy two Macintosh apples. See how this goes.
Friday, April 12th:
A faint woodsy smell from inside the drawer.
Sunday, April 14th:
A slight discoloration. A sweet, cidery tang. Now we’re talking.
Wednesday, April 17th:
This cloying fragrance pulls me east, back to my childhood… long-lost sunsets in late August when school is just over the horizon.
Friday, April 18th:
Nectar-y grainy smell. Down by the ocean, bulrushes, seagulls. Summers on the Cape.
Wednesday, April 19th:
I see brown spots on both apples. Are they shriveling? I might be imagining the shriveling.
Thursday, April 20th:
Okay, if nostalgia has a smell, then this is it—falling leaves, Halloween pumpkins, candy corn, picking apples with my family at the local orchard.
Tuesday, April 23rd:
Tart. Vaguely distracting. Maybe not Schiller-level rot yet. I don’t think this is it—but it’s the smell of playing outdoors. Dusty hot feet. Large hazy moons. Falling asleep with the windows open. Barn owls hooting back and forth. Crickets.
Sunday, April 28th:
I see a pattern of bruised spots over both apples now. Should I be worried about ants?
Monday, April 29th:
Here we go. Funky now, almost like tobacco. Barn-y. Cidery. Reminiscent of hay dust, cow manure, and siloes of fermenting grains. Totally Schiller-esque.
Friday, May 4th:
When I open the drawer, I’m hit with a disturbing puckery smell. Officially offensive. Both apples have silver-dollar-sized mushy brown spots with fissures running through them. Like leftovers you’d find in a serial killer’s fridge. Fuzzy baloney-ish, black banana-y.
Saturday, May 5th:
I don’t want to open the drawer. I really don’t.
Monday, May 7th:
I open the drawer. Rancid pulpy smell. I try to imagine what Schiller found so inspiring about this, because it makes me want to throw up. And it’s spring. I don’t want to throw up. The dogwoods are blooming.
Tuesday, May 8th:
I’m done with this. I’m no longer intrigued. I throw the rotten apples away.
I don’t like input when I write—I need the world to disappear. I wear earplugs to block out sound. I sit in a corner with no windows or sunlight. I don’t listen to music.
The smell of rotten apples was distracting. It only inspired me to clean out my desk drawer with disinfectant wipes.
Centuries later, few remember Friedrich von Schiller for Ode to Joy, but people like me remember him as the rotten-apple guy.
Too bad, because in Ode to Joy, he wrote this:
Joy, joy moves the wheels
In the universal time machine.
Flowers it calls forth from their buds.
Suns from the Firmament,
Spheres it moves far out in Space,
Where our telescopes cannot reach.
When I was a little girl, I wanted to fly. I would hop off the ground like a broken toy.
When I was a little girl, I went to a friend’s house and looked around for their books. There were none. “Where are all your books?” I wondered. Our house was full of books. My father built bookshelves out of white pine planks that warped in the middle and the books fell off.
When I was a little girl, I collected keys. Skeleton, mostly. I kept them in a tin box. My father took me to junk shops and let me buy rusty old keys. He told me music had keys and that deadbolts didn’t. He said there were keys to the kingdom. One time he got so mad at me he said he would lock me up and throw away the key, and that frightened me more than anything he ever said. Once I found a key in the dirt outside an old barn. It fit into a padlock on the barn door and it was like opening a tomb.
When I was a little girl, I’d lie awake all night, worrying about squirrels in the attic and my father hurting himself. One time, I got out of bed and went downstairs and discovered that Dad was awake. He was full of worries, too. Together we went outside, listened to the silence, and watched the sunrise.
HOW MY BOOK CAME TOGETHER
Before I can sit down and write a 350-page novel, I need three things—a dream, a memory, and a true story that fascinates me. Only then can the alchemy begin.
1. The Dream:
Each one of my novels was inspired by a dream. Before I wrote “A Breath After Drowning,” I had a dream that my husband and I came home and couldn’t get our front door open. I slid the key into the lock but it wouldn’t turn. Inside, the phone was ringing off the hook, and I knew in my heart something horrible had happened. That dream was the seed that grew into my new novel.
Dreams contain an underlying truth. What did this one mean? I was suddenly homeless. I’d lost my identity. An unknown force was threatening everything I held dear. I’d been locked out of my own home—this ignited my imagination, and I became obsessed with its literary implications.
2. The Memory:
My father was admitted to a psych ward after his first suicide attempt. I remember visiting him there when I was sixteen years old. The clocks in the waiting room told the wrong time, and the magazines were three years old. Dad shuffled toward us in his pajamas and bathrobe. He looked washed away. His eyes were faded. He talked to us as if he’d forgotten who we were. As if something alien had replaced him. This memory still haunts me, and it inspired the pivotal scene in “A Breath After Drowning” where, as a young girl, Kate visits her mother in the asylum.
3. The True Story:
The murder of Jessica Lunsford effected me deeply. She was a nine-year-old girl from Florida, who was murdered in 2005. Her body was found 150 yards from her home. She’d been buried alive. Her death was so tragic and cruel, it filled me with anger and sadness. I couldn’t imagine how her parents coped with such a loss, and so I gave their terrible pain to my main character.
In my novel, “A Breath After Drowning,” child psychiatrist Kate Wolfe’s world comes crashing down when one of her young patients reveals things about Kate’s past that she shouldn’t know—things involving the murder of Kate’s sister sixteen years earlier.
In writing this book, I felt a powerful connection to Kate, a connection so strong it propelled the book forward. She took the dream, the memory, and the true story, and she put it on her shoulders—I followed.
BOOKS THAT OWN ME
I own a lot of books. Hundreds. Stacked on tables, crammed into bookshelves, packed away in boxes. Usually, I’ll read a book once and that’s it. Occasionally I’ll come across a book I truly love, and I will turn to it again and again. These pages are dog-eared. The jackets are missing. I don’t own these books—they own me.
Here’s a short list of my favorites:
Susan Minot wrote a book called Monkeys about growing up with lots of brothers and sisters and having a father who slowly loses his mind. The entire family dances around the elephant in the room, and the children try to fix the world for their parents but can’t. I love this book, and I love this writer. Minot’s young characters speak with the disturbing honesty of children stuck in hell.
“The Ballard of the Sad Café”
In The Ballad of the Sad Café, Southern Gothic author Carson McCullers penned a love story about an awkward, tall woman who falls in love with a short, cagey stranger. The stranger breaks her heart, makes her look like a fool, and then leaves the small town she’s stuck in forever. What’s not to love about a storyteller like that? McCullers was a fearless woman writing crazy fables of tragic love at a time when women were supposed to behave like Doris Day.
Rosemary Woodhouse is the face of all that is good in Ira Levin’s Rosemary’s Baby, one of my favorite books. She’s modern, optimistic, funny, vibrant. She loves her husband, who turns on her in the most vicious way imaginable, forcing her to become the primal mother who wields a knife to protect her child. Rosemary is everywoman, wanting life to be good for the people she loves, until she comes face to face with true evil. Instead of shrinking, she fights.
The characters in J.D. Salinger’s Nine Stories can’t cope with the hypocrisy of the adult world—how we lie to ourselves, how we betray each other daily. My favorite story in this delicious collection is “A Perfect Day for Bananafish.” In it, Seymour Glass is losing his mind. He went to war, and now he’s back, married to Muriel, a shallow young woman who doesn’t understand him. Seymour loves her, but that only makes his sense of isolation more painful. While his wife is preoccupied with frivolous things, Seymour sits on the beach and talks to three-year-old Sybil, who calls him “See more glass.” Seymour tells Sybil about bananafish, an allusion to his inner turmoil. It’s the story of a man who can’t contain his pain any longer, and somehow it’s funny and sweet and poignant… and the most hauntingly realistic thing I’ve ever read.
“Silence of the Lambs”
Gorgeously written by Thomas Harris, Silence of the Lambs is a chilling look at the fine line between good and evil. Clarice Starling grew up poor and struggling, but the one thing that kept her afloat was her father, a cop who believed in justice. After he died Clarice got sent away to live with relatives, where she witnessed the slaughter of the spring lambs. The death of the lambs drove Clarice to become the kind of person her dad would’ve been proud of. But it’s just the kind of psychological weakness Hannibal Lector preys on. Clarice needs his help to stop a psychotic creep from skinning more victims, and she allows Hannibal to probe her psyche, but instead of manipulating and controlling her, Hannibal comes to admire this dauntless woman. Clarice is a hero who can’t be corrupted and she outwits both monsters in the end.
William Peter Blatty’s crowning achievement is a superbly written shocker and the definitive horror novel. Great thrillers are often about ordinary people confronting evil, and never has there been a more authentically ordinary character than Chris MacNeil. Despite the fact that she’s a movie star (there’s nothing ordinary about that), she comes across as a regular person—a divorced mom and compulsive worrier who lies awake at night fearing death and… what-the-heck-is-making-that-scraping-sound-in-the-attic? When a demon possesses her daughter, Regan, Chris is forced to battle not only the supernatural, but a medical establishment that cannot help her little girl. My vote for the ultimate horror Mom.
Denis Johnson’s legendary collection of short stories is a harrowing masterwork—hypnotic snapshots of young men who use drugs to ward off the suffering they feel every day of their failed lives. Each gemlike tale is carved from Johnson’s own vivid life experiences. We are transported into a radiant world full of ravishing beauty and raw visions. Johnson’s genius is that he has us willingly embracing the transformative power of human emotions—yearning, grief, and wonder.
I love these books with all my heart.
I’m staring at a painting by Paul Klee. Sweeping brushstrokes on the canvas, eye-popping oranges and reds, flame-shapes, one large blue eye so wise it looks into your soul, and a sense that something is imminent, just trembling there, about to explode.
This is how it feels to live with a bipolar father.
Arthur Rimbaud wrote, “There’s a fire in you alone, made of soft, satin embers.”
Being an artist is like being an addict. You’re hooked on the process of creating. You have visions. You crawl inside your own head and get stuck in the tunnels of your mind, until you find your way out, rest and recuperate, and begin again.
Klee said, “I cannot be understood at all on this Earth.” That’s the fear. The fear of loneliness. Of silence. Of isolation.
My father could not be understood at all on this Earth. We all tried to understand him. Until, in the end, we could not understand.
Dad was a painter and sculptor, a sensitive, vulnerable man. He had ups and downs. His highs were Mount Everest highs, and his lows could be hellish. His upswings were magical, especially for me as a child—he’d tell us his grandiose schemes. He’d paint obsessively for hours. His eyes grew wide with visions swirling in the chemical miasma of his brain. His canvases reminded me of Klee’s—the bold colors and broad strokes. He painted pueblos of New Mexico, brooding New England barns, and foreboding moonlit skies over our house on the edge of the woods.
He taught me how to walk through the forest without making a sound, like the Native Americans he deeply admired—heel-to-toe. That way you could view the woods without scaring the creatures away. You could experience life as it really was. He taught me how to observe. How to see the world.
When my dad took his own life, recovering from it was like crawling out of emotional quicksand. For the longest time, I struggled with my writing. I ran away. As fast as I could. I ran and hid. But eventually, I had to turn and face it.
Long after his death, my father came to me in a dream. He was smiling. He seemed happy. I asked him my most burning question—“Where are you?” He told me he was in northern Idaho. “Oh,” I said. The dream was over.
The next day, I looked the place up on a map. I had no idea what it was supposed to mean. But I think he was telling me to move on. Explore. Go. Don’t stop now. He certainly wasn’t.
Photograph by Polly Grice
I collect old photographs of forgotten people. Each one comes with a flawed face. I love the mismatched smiles, the dejected eyes, the primly clasped hands. The camera captures tiny insights like a time machine.
We fear that our lives are insignificant.
I grew up in a New England farmhouse that—I swear—was haunted. The rooms breathed. The foundation was made out of crumbling stones. You could hear insects chewing into the windowsills. The narrow attic stairs pitched upwards into darkness. My sisters and I hurried past that awful door.
We fear that our lives are meaningless.
We were poor. We took one bath a week. We shared one hair-dryer. We had one phone, nailed to the hallway wall, with a long cord that stretched around the corner and into the basement. I would close the basement door behind me, sit on the top step, and tell my best friend my worst secret.
We doubt the wisdom of our choices.
In the summer, we went barefoot. We had a beautiful wildness. We shrieked with laughter and slammed screen doors. We competed to see who could hit the most black walnuts into the woods with a golf club. We wore hand-me-downs. We ran into the fields like heathens.
Nobody has it all worked out.
My father struggled to keep us afloat. His car was always in the garage getting fixed. My mother cut our hair in the kitchen. She combed my bangs, then cut them straight across with a pair of scissors, like she was hemming curtains.
We fumble along.
Here’s a picture of me. My eyes are happy bright. I look a little goofy. I didn’t feel poor.