The Writing Life

Sometimes ideas latch onto me and will not let go. One day, for no particular reason, my mind drifted back to a day (or perhaps a composite of days) when I walked straight through New York City's Central Park from the West Side to the East Side. That didn't happen often,  because I only had two friends who lived  on the East Side and once they were gone, only an occasional visit to the Met drew me over there. When I thought back to those occasions, I found myself wanting to write about the trees. There was one path closer to the West Side I think, where the trees formed a canopy over the walkway. I was struck by how protected I remembered feeling almost as if the trees were caring for me and mothering me. And I wanted to write about it. It wasn't a short story I wanted to write, but a poem. Now mind you, I have never (successfully) written a poem that was borne out of a direct attempt to write a poem. That is to say, any decent poems I've ever turned out simply ...

Like poems, characters usually present themselves to me straight out of the scenes in my life. I've got one or two trying to take shape in the mist of my imagination, but most are composites of people I've known or at least seen. Sometimes you just see someone who looks unusual, o who's acting crazy and you just know they would come to life again even more in one of your stories. In my case, one such individual, who has become the protagonist in a novella I'm working on, crossed my path one evening when my husband and I were having dinner with friends from out of town. We met our friends at their hotel in the heart of Hollywood, and decided to dine in the hotel's rooftop restaurant. Everything was great, we had ordered our meal and were in the throes of catching up, when I noticed a man out of the corner of my eye.  A man of color, with dark brown skin to be exact, stood near the doorway of the dining room. He was small of stature and very well dressed. But ...