Hidden Pieces

Yesterday I was cleaning. I was also transferring clothes from Boy #1's bedroom to Boy #2's new bedroom (we did a shuffling of rooms now that Oldest is off at college). As I opened Boy#1's dresser, I was suddenly struck with a pang of grief so sharp, I had to sit down, literally. You see, Boy #1 uses my grandfather's dresser. It's old and makes a certain sound when you open the drawers because it's all wooden pegs--no screws, no metal tracks like they do now. But given the dresser must be 70 years old, at least, sometimes the drawers stick a bit. And something about the sound, that precise wood against wood drag, just conjured up my grandfather--the sound is so distinct and took me back to when I would watch him put his change on his dresser after work and open the drawers. I am amazed, still, how grief is one of those human emotions that fades, but then comes back to life, clear as day, when it wants to, or when you see, hear, or smell a reminder. I miss him.

I miss a lot of people, actually. And grief often finds me at unexpected moments.

But I suppose one of the great things about being a writer is the ability to hide people I love in my books. It's never overt. You would have to really, REALLY know not just me, but my whole life, in order to find them. It's enough for me to know they are there.

My characters often play rummy (my grandmother taught me that game), for example, or poker (same thing). They adore Neccos (grandma again). They like diners (grandpa AND grandma).

In the Magickeepers, there are Cossack swordsmen. This stems from my father's mother dragging me to their shows when they came to Carnegie Hall and Lincoln Center. Somehow, then, I was supposed to appreciate my heritage. I suppose, vaguely, I did. But mostly, I was hot and bored sitting in my seat. I was nine. What did I know. Now they are in a book.

So tell me, what hidden pieces are in your book for someone to find?

Tell Me Everything

One my desk sits a picture of my Grandma Irene in a Mets T-shirt. She's a frail-looking 80ish, give or take, and her Mets--HER Mets--were her life. Keith Hernandez was her personal dreamboat.

I was at Game 7 when the Mets won the World Series. I took the train out to Shea, and rode the train afterwards. Rather than get off at my stop, I ended up getting out in Times Square. If I recall correctly, I think I danced in the street with a cabbie from Turkey. New York City was delirious with joy.

The next day, I went to visit my grandmother. She opened the door to her apartment, dragged me by the hand, sat me down at her kitchen table and said, "TELL ME EVERYTHING."

To be sure, she watched the game. Just as she faithfully watched every game on TV. But she was looking for something MORE. So I started with how I got the tickets (an unusual story that I will spare you all the details, involving scalped tickets, a pair of illegally bought sneakers, and other assorted insanity). Next there was the fact that I spent my LAST DIME on the tickets and was literally, in my pathetic little apartment at the time, scraping together quarters for train fare. I moved along to the train ride (drunken Mets fans). Banging on the train walls and doors . . . the noise, the anticipation. The sheer tremor that ran through the fans.

Next, arriving at Shea. The weather. The seats. The BOSTON fans (boo, hiss) who sat next to me and taunted me the whole time. The fights in the stands. The smell of pretzels and beer. All of it. BEING there when they won. The pile-up on the field (THE JOY!). The train ride home. Kissing total strangers. Dancing in Time Square. Everything.

She wasn't in a rush. In detail, the story from beginning to end takes a solid two hours. Minimum. One baseball fan to the other.

I remember that when I write. Because I think, if you do it well, when you tell your story, your reader should live vicariously through the characters. By the time I went to Game 7 of the Series, there was no way my grandma could have gone. She was too frail (open heart surgery), too fragile. Too old. In her heart, she had all the enthusiam. She loved Keith Hernandez like a high school girl with a crush. But she couldn't have been there. So she got to go through me.

THAT'S what writing a story is like.

Tell me everything.

Thoughts?