I read in this morning’s paper (Saturday May 2) an article titled Missing the outside world? Take comfort in your inner life. The author, Howard Axelrod, had spent two years in solitude after a traumatic accident blinded him in his right eye. He was bringing lessons from that experience to the current Covid-19 crisis. The challenge to take comfort in my inner life struck a chord.
We all have an inner life – the voice that talks to us when we need a talking to; the thought of doing something particularly rash; the unexpressed desires; the cautionary words that come unbidden in unexpected circumstances; the ‘what if’ wonderings that take command from time to time and change the course of our lives; the places in our minds that offer escape.
Howard Axelrod’s article prompted me to consider my inner life as an author.
Like many others, Covid-19 has muffled my brain, turned my normally productive self into a pinball machine with little silver balls ricocheting up and down and here and there, banging and ringing without any focus. Maybe I should check FaceBook? Maybe I should phone my mother? Maybe I should straighten my bookshelves? Maybe I should … maybe I should … maybe I should.
Finally, two weeks ago, I sat down with edits at hand to put the finishing touches on the latest manuscript. Within minutes, I was in a Tae Kwan Do studio with my character and then her New York City loft, my brain engaged in what she might be thinking and what she was saying and why. I’d escaped to another world, a world of my own making. I sent that off to my agent on Wednesday with both excitement and fear and with a great sense of accomplishment.
With that feeling of accomplishment in mind, I cleared my desk, got out another manuscript — this one created three years ago — and recommenced the revision process I’d decided on in January. The book hasn’t sold. My agent’s advise was to ditch the romantic elements and focus on my characters’ experiences with the underlying issues pulling Paris apart: the risks of living in a city under siege; the randomness of death; the devastation of bombardment; the threatening circumstances that pitted one citizen against another.
And now I’m spending my time in 1870 Paris. As I write, I walk the streets of that great city, pass monuments like the Arc de Triomphe and the Pantheon, ride a carriage through the Bois de Boulogne, climb the hill to Montmartre while anticipating the threat of a long siege and the dangers to come.
Imagination provides an amazing escape.