The Snowflake and the Snowstorm

Bags are being packed around these parts as I gear up to spend March at the Maison Dora Maar, at work on my fourth novel. I won’t lie, friends: I am a little stressed and nervous, for reasons to follow. But I had a few things to share before I go silent for the month.

// Like most of the literary world, I have mourned the passing of Michael Silverblatt, the most astonishing serious reader of fiction any of us are likely to encounter in our lives. Everyone has been sharing their Silverblatt stories; although (to my great sorrow) I was never a guest on Bookworm, I did get to know him through many LA events and green rooms, where he was unfailingly kind and welcoming. I suspect part of him would have been on guard against every writer on the make wanting something from him, and I was careful never to mention anything like that. I simply enjoyed talking books with the man. And I was always surprised when he remembered me from one meeting to the next.

Also like everyone else, I was always astonished by the depths of his insights, his Jamesian, clause-laden questions that often seemed to peel back layers that even the author hadn’t considered. I was also tickled by that “what the fuck just happened?” pause that followed one of these questions, as the writer was processing what they just heard. (I also felt there were two distinct categories of writers - those who sort of had no idea where this interpretation was coming from but eagerly if fumblingly claimed it as their own. And the rarer few who were impressed by the reading but said no, that is not really what I meant. McEwan did this once, as I recall.)

Of the many remembrances circulating, this one from Jynne Dilling is my favorite, best captures the sense of the man I knew. And I can’t tell you how many times I have watched this Lannan discussion between Michael and John Berger. It’s pure joy.

// I made a recent somewhat impulsive trip to London in order to catch the new Old Vic revival of Arcadia, my favorite Tom Stoppard play. As it happened, I’d bought tickets the moment they went on sale, and just a few weeks later, Sir Tom was gone. I’d planned an entire weekend of London culture around this performance - and then was promptly felled by a stomach virus so vicious I was longing for death. Three of the five days sick in bed.

Luckily, I rallied sufficiently to wobble to the Old Vic where my persistence was rewarded by a sublime production. Strong performances throughout - Isis Hainsworth’s Thomasina was a revelation, it’s a tricky role and she nailed it. Director Carrie Cracknell’s inventive staging worked just beautifully, and I loved every moment of it. If you are in London, or London-bound, add it to your list while you can.

// I wanted to touch briefly on my upcoming year of residencies, and some realizations I have had. Folks have been asking me a lot about these recently, since I do seem to be riding a lucky streak. I will be at Maison Dora Maar for March; then I just learned I will be at Chateau de Lavigny in June; and finally I have one accepted for November that is still under a mild gag order.

And I still have about five or six applications outstanding …

As I said, I am not without anxiety. Part of it is being away from my partner for so long; another is my fear that I will fail to make the most of this experience. (This new novel is, as they say, a beast.) And then there is a generalized Imposter Syndrome - the people I am lucky enough to share these residencies with are enormously accomplished, well-credentialed; in short, Serious Folks.

And then there’s me.

What I can offer for folks thinking about applying is this: I have, in the past, frankly sort of half-assed my applications. Two reasons - the first, an unattractive bit of entitlement that I am not proud of, a sense of “c’mon, look at my CV, let me in.”

That did not work out too well.

The other reason, I came to realize, was that by holding back a bit, by not really giving it my all, I gave myself a convenient, face-saving excuse. “Ahhh, they didn’t take me because I half-assed the application. But if I’d really tried … “

So, last year I really tried. After my revelatory stay at VCCA, I made up a dream list of a dozen fellowships, and I decided to go for it hard. I won’t say that is a magic bullet but it has clearly made a difference. So far, I am three in the win column, four in the pass column, with a bunch remaining. This is a point worth lingering on - there are always more “nos” than “yeses” …

I think part of it is that I have hooked a live one with this fourth book; and that it is a distinctly European feeling novel, hence the preponderance of US passes and EU acceptances. And it matters that I poured real passion and ambition into my project plan this time.

But it’s also purely luck. I have applied for Dora Maar on and off since 2015 and this is my first acceptance. (Got close with a waitlist last year.) And I was initially waitlisted for Lavigny, but quickly cleared the list and received an invitation. So, equal measures hard work and luck.

Finally, I know how kind of wildly privileged it is to simply take off for a month (or three) to hole up and write. Many people - most people - can’t easily accommodate that. But there are many residences that will take writers for two weeks, or even just one. (I did two at VCCA and one at Dorland Mountain Arts Colony.) So if this is a dream, keep looking.

(I suppose here I should mention there are three spots left for the annual Monterey writing retreat that I host in April; it’s designed to give a taste of this protected writing time experience to people with full and busy lives. End of plug, sorry.)

I expect to be pretty silent on all socials in March, but will happily share stories upon my return. For now, I get ready to dive in with this novel, that terrifying but exciting period when everything is still new, anything is possible — freedom that can be thrilling and dizzying. At the beginning again, knowing almost nothing. It makes me so happy.

Keep safe. Be strong. Work well.