View

It’s the final night of my writing retreat. The room has become familiar, and the view of the dense pine hillside across the valley, where an A-line cabin gleams every evening at sunset with blinding intensity, a fierce cross of golden light with striated edges tapering on the ends like the tip of a knife. The acoustics are strange; I pass the time making guesses about which direction an approaching car will be taking when it moves through my field of view on the street below.

The girls down at the cafe see my notebook and ask what I’m working on. One of them lights up when I tell her I’m a writer. So am I, she says, and after that she circles my table quietly and keeps my coffee cup filled.

This is not like some of the other retreats I’ve taken. Drew planned it, for one thing, and when I spoke with him the other night he apologized for describing the many ways in which my previous coworkers have thrown me under the bus since I left: I shouldn’t have told you, you don’t need all that negative shit right now. Get back to work. My mom left a message, but didn’t ask me to return her call: You’re working, don’t worry about it.

Strange how things have changed. My successful agent hunt has brought me more than a partner on the business end of writing, more than an ally in helping me produce my best work. The revisions, the focus and intensity make me feel professional about my writing, as though I’m here on a business trip. I sense a new-found respect from my husband, who has been reading the articles on publishing I send him, who is interested in the conversations I’ve had with my agent regarding further plot development and possible avenues to publication. The odds I’ve just beaten are becoming clear to all of us, and as we near the point where my book will sell or will not (oh please, Mr. Kleinman), the people around me seem to be hovering, waiting to see what will become of all this work.

But I’ve gone away again, back into the story. The words and ideas, the plot, the characters . . . all are as they have been. They’re still mine, they’ve been waiting for me. I wrote a long new scene today and thought, yes indeed, there is more to be discovered here.

Tomorrow I’ll be home again.

What do you know about your work?

Girl in the Hat Says . . .

. . . Young Virgin Auto-Sodomized by the Horns of Her Own Chastity is a portrait of a good girl and a projection of what some would like to do to her.  In 1958, Dalí wrote, “Paradoxically, this painting, which has an erotic appearance, is the most chaste of all.”  For the moment she is untouched, but her chastity is a wild bull charging headfirst, prime for the gore.  As observers, we are encouraged to enjoy the spectacle because she did it to herself—Dali’s title tells us so, insists that her adversary is merely her own manifest desire.  So, in rooting for the bull, we applaud her fulfillment.  (“She asked for it.”)  Her imminent rape will be self-induced, autonomous, and immaculate (never mind the artist who paints it or the bystanders who look). 

If the painting had included the image of a man standing behind her with his beret cocked to one side, nicotine-stained fingers, a curling moustache, and buggy eyes, then it wouldn’t be okay anymore, that would be just be wrong.  But she’s alone, all alone.  And look—she’s still a virgin. What happens next is all in your own (dirty) mind.  And it’s not real, anyway; it’s fantastic.  Dreamers are allowed to do all sorts of things they wouldn’t do in real life.

I suppose for many onlookers, the excitement and tension of this spectacle hinges on the girl’s naiveté.  If she knows what’s coming, it won’t be quite so fun. Her lack of knowledge and control is so exciting it’s like watching a child pick up a jack-in-the-box and turn the crank for the first time.  What will she do when the clown explodes from the box?  Will she squeal with excitement or will she burst into tears?  It doesn’t matter; either way will be gratifying for some.  So in order to fully appreciate this painting, one must possess a modicum of experience, one must be slightly jaded, because it was painted for those who have turned that crank before, who know what’s going to happen and have tired of the game.  For them, her innocence revitalizes the thrill and vicarious surprise. . . .

Read the rest of Anna’s post here.