Today Red Rose Thorns published my essay “How I Became My Own Dudley Do-Right.” The editors were wonderful to work with, and I’m glad that my essay spoke to them.
I hear writers say that if a story keeps hounding you, you need to write about it. And so I kept trying to write this essay, but it took me a long time to get it right. I would start to write it, but when I read it, it always fell flat. Then one day I decided to write my essay as a letter, and it clicked.
Trigger warning: This story is about a guy who pulled my tube top down in public, leaving me exposed in front of our group of friends. It’s also the story of me becoming my own hero!
Ziva is pretty much back to her old self this morning.
Ziva loves to be with the grandkids when they visit. March 2024
Yesterday morning Ziva met Dr. F, a new vet, and Ziva loved her immediately, but she loves everyone. I really liked the new vet, too; although, I refrained from leaning my head against the vet’s leg and nuzzling her.
I had been nervous about having a stranger examine Ziva because she already has two other vets, Dr. J. and Dr. M., who treat her. I wanted Ziva to see one of the vets who currently care for her. But now we have three wonderful vets to choose from, which might make it easier to get an appointment when we need one.
From Tuesday, when I made Ziva’s vet appointment, until Thursday, when Ziva saw the vet, she had improved. However, I had videos on my phone to show the vet, so she could see how poorly Ziva had been moving in the previous days. The vet examined Ziva and determined that she most likely had a soft-tissue injury that needed to heal. The vet recommended increasing Ziva’s Librela shots for her osteoarthritis from every four weeks to every three weeks, giving her a three-to-five-day course of an anti-inflammatory medicine, and monitoring her movements.
Monitoring Ziva’s movements is the tricky part. Because when she feels better, she likes to run up the side of the house. She likes to run out to the front yard and prance around while she barks at a squirrel scrambling up a tree or a passing dog or the neighbor who is once again for the zillionth time mowing his lawn. Right now, I cringe when I watch her do these things, so I’ve been taking her outside on her leash. She’s limited to a couple of walks a day, but only around the block, which suits her just fine. And if I take her in the car, I put her on the leash and walk her to the back passenger door, so she can’t dance, prance, and spin in happy circles because she’s excited for a ride.
The reality is that while Ziva’s doing much better, going forward we’ll have to take care with her by limiting her exposure to situations where she could reinjure herself. But we’ll also have to make sure she is living the best life she can. This includes making sure she moves because “move it or loose it” applies to dogs too.
Ziva, cooling her toes in Lake Michigan, September 2023
Yesterday, after her rough morning, Ziva had a slightly better afternoon. She still slept most of the time, but when she did get up, she moved better, slowly and cautiously, but better.
I’ve become an expert at watching Ziva’s movements and her gait. I’ve been doing it for five or six years now. We walk a lot, so I’m able to note how she moves from day to day, week to week, and month to month. In 2017, I read Being Mortal: Medicine and What Matters in the End by Dr. Atul Gawande. He wrote that if doctors know what they are looking at, they can tell a lot about an older person by the way he or she walks. When I worked at a bookstore, medical students sometimes came in with a list of suggested reading (beyond medical texts) given to them by a professor. I always suggested they add Gawande’s Being Mortal to their stack because it deals with aging and death, topics about which they would receive little exposure to in medical school. They usually bought the book because I was able to convince them that geriatric and end-of-life concerns were going to figure in their practice — regardless of their medical specialties. And so, I watch Ziva’s gait and movements. I note the changes over time, and I can describe them to the vet in a manner that impresses her and helps her to treat Ziva. I did the same with Cabela, Ziva’s sister, as she aged.
When my husband and I came home from the grocery store yesterday afternoon, Ziva met us at the door and wagged her tail. I realized how much I take her incessant tail wagging for granted. We made a big fuss over her swirling tail and gave her a treat. It might sound like Ziva gets a lot of treats, and she does. Most days she eats her breakfast and supper too, as long as we doctor it up with good stuff (eggs, boiled chicken, a bit of canned food), what my husband likes to call “frosting.” Ziva isn’t overweight. Rather when we go to the vet’s, I hold my breath and hope she hasn’t lost another half-pound. When she weighs the same as she did the last time, I joyfully exhale.
Around three o’clock, while she appeared to be sound asleep, I whispered to my husband that I was going for a walk. Unbeknownst to me, while I got ready, Ziva got up, walked to the back door, and waited for me. (There is nothing wrong with her hearing or her ability to look like she’s in a deep sleep when she’s actually keeping tabs on her people.) She looked at me with big pleading eyes — the ones that say: You’re surely not going without me?
In the morning we’d agreed that Ziva should have lots of rest. No car rides, no walks, no extended outside time. But she stood at the back door, telling she felt better and wanted to walk. I worried she might tweak her injury if she stumbled. But I kept my comments to myself because she didn’t want to hear about my fears. She had her own. And even though she was hurting, she wanted some say in how she was going to get better. In that moment, I weighed her need for a small outing against the chances she might aggravate her injury. I decided her emotional well-being was important to her healing.
When I was nineteen and living with my grandparents, I got very sick. I was on bed rest for two weeks. Finally, I started to feel better. I wanted to do something other than lay in bed. I hadn’t been out of the house since coming home from the hospital, but I was weak. I called my mother, and I started crying as I explained how I felt. She told me to get out of the house for a bit, that if I felt like going out, it was a sign I was getting better. I called my girlfriend, who said that she and her boyfriend were going to a softball game, and they would come and pick me up, take me to the game, then bring me home. My grandmother and I had a big argument about my going out. Of course, she was worried about me. But I didn’t back down. I finally told her, “I called my mother this morning, and she told me I could go out for a bit.” I felt so much better when I returned home a couple of hours later; although, I did need a nap. My grandmother, noting my happy face, said, “It was so nice of your friends to take you out and bring you back.” I believe she was also relieved I hadn’t overdone it.
While I grabbed Ziva’s harness and fastened it around her, I thought about my grandmother and our argument. I explained the rules to Ziva. We would walk down through the grass instead of down the stairs, and our walk would be slow and short. We walked less than one city block, but Ziva went to the bathroom and sniffed a few of her favorite spots along the way. When I announced it was time to go home, she happily turned around. After we got home, she curled up for a big nap, but she had enjoyed herself. After her nap, she wasn’t any worse for the walk, but she didn’t want her after-dinner walk.
This morning Ziva is moving a little faster and with more confidence, but still carefully. And her tail wagging, while not back to normal, tells me her pain has eased a bit.
A little over a week ago, my dog, Ziva, slipped on the wooden stairs that run along the side of my house. She didn’t just lose her footing, she fell down. When she got back up, she could hardly put any weight on her back left leg. She’s thirteen and a half years old, so injuries are disconcerting.
At the time Ziva fell, we were headed out for a walk with my four grandkids. I thought I’d have to carry Ziva back in the house, but after she took a few steps, her leg worked better, but walking wasn’t easy for her. I figured we’d just walk across the road and let her tinkle, then go back home. But the more she walked, the better her leg worked. She resisted my efforts to turn around and go home, making it clear she wanted to keep walking, just like an athlete shaking off a momentary ache before getting back in the game. We completed our short walk, and Ziva did well for the rest of the day.
Then on Sunday, she must have done something that tweaked her injury. She likes to prance and dance around when she’s excited, especially if she’s outside and we’re getting ready to go for a ride or if she sees a dog walking down the street. She was a little gimpy Sunday evening, but not too bad, and she still insisted we go for her after-dinner walk. When she woke up on Monday, she was back to her old self.
But on Monday afternoon, she tweaked her injury again, probably getting out of the van. Because not long after her ride to the post office with us, she once again struggled to walk around. She was obviously in pain. She ate supper, but she wanted nothing to do with her after-dinner walk. At first I thought she wanted to walk because she stood by the back door. So, I put her leash on, and we walked onto the back deck. But she refused to move more than a few feet beyond the back door. We went back in the house, and she stood in front of the microwave and looked up at her treat dish. Her message to me: I walked a few feet, now I want my treats. Happy that she had an appetite, and that she still enjoyed bossing me around, I gave her a half dozen small crunchy treats. After she realized she wasn’t going to get anymore, she went to sleep on her bed in the family room, where she stayed for the rest of the night.
Tuesday morning when Ziva woke up, she was her cheery, tail-wagging self. Her walking was back to normal, and she was interested in breakfast and her morning walk.
But Tuesday afternoon after prancing and dancing in the yard, Ziva reinjured herself. And this time was worse than the other times. She was in pain. She struggled to walk. Anytime she got up from the floor, she stood still for a couple of minutes, as if waiting to see if she could trust her leg to move forward and keep her upright. She wouldn’t wag her tail.
I called the vet’s office, and because there was a cancellation, I was able to get Ziva an appointment for Thursday morning. I couldn’t believe our good luck. It’s so hard to get a short-notice appointment at my vet’s because they have so many patients and not enough staff. A pet has to be in dire condition, and Ziva’s injury doesn’t meet that standard. Even the emergency veterinary hospital, which is open nights and weekends, wouldn’t want me to bring her in because they wouldn’t consider her critically ill. They would tell me she could be seen by her regular vet. And her regular vet would tell me that I could take her to the ER vet hospital when it opened. It’s a classic Catch-22 moment when this happens. So much so that it gives me pause about getting another dog.
On Tuesday night after her supper, Ziva never asked for a walk or her post-walk treats. After I took her outside to go to the bathroom, she climbed into her large, cushy bed on the family room floor and went to sleep. Throughout the afternoon and evening, she never once wagged her tail. I was glad she had eaten supper and that she drank water, but I wanted to see her poofy tail twirl in the adorable circles it makes when she wags it.
I tried to walk without Ziva. I walked down to the road and started to go left, but that’s usually the way Ziva and I go, which made me sad. Then I discovered I had my T-shirt on inside out, which distressed me. I wondered if anyone would notice because I knew if I went inside the house to turn it right-side out, I wouldn’t come back outside. I decided to walk the other direction, but I couldn’t do that either. I was too sad without Ziva. There are times I have walked without her, but that’s because it was too hot for her or because she was taking a big nap and I didn’t want to wake her. This time was different because she wasn’t able to come with me. I went back inside and turned my T-shirt right-side out. I picked up a book and sat down on the couch. While reading, I kept looking up to watch Ziva as she slept, hoping she was healing.
This morning Ziva was only slightly better. In pain and not trusting her leg, she walked slowly. But before she went outside to the bathroom, she wagged her tail and asked for a treat. My husband and I both gave a small cheer while Ziva ate her treats.
Today there will be no walks or car rides. Ziva won’t go outside unless someone is with her to make sure there is no prancing and dancing. After we see the vet tomorrow, we’ll know more, but continued rest will probably be part of the treatment. We are keeping an eye on her. She can hop up on the couch or the stuffed chair, but when she wants to get down, she looks to one of us for help. As I finish writing this, she is sleeping on her bed in my office. She often joins me when I write. She is a mama’s girl. And she is my Ziva Baby.
Other than this blog, I mostly write short stories and essays, but I had so much fun writing this article. I also took the photos and wrote the captions. One of the highlights of writing this article was interviewing Carol, the co-president of the Lake Superior Rose Society, who was more than generous with her time. She is so knowledgeable about the Rose Garden and its history, plus she knows so much about roses and their history. I learned more from her than I could possibly include in my article, but her willingness to share her knowledge gave me the confidence to write about roses, which I knew so little about.
Our community is lucky to have a publication like Northern Wilds. The articles are well written and cover a variety of topics, such as outdoor activities, artist profiles, nature, ecology, tourist venues, community celebrations, and local restaurants.
My youngest grandson strikes a pose along the Lakewalk. Check out his knees! That is how mine always looked when I was his age.
I love the title of this book because it plays two ways. When I decided to reread the book, I bought my own copy.
The first time I read Max Perkins: Editor of Genius, I did so because in the spring of 2019 my writing friend Milan suggested that I read it. He said it was a wonderful book. Then he kept following up with the question, “Have you read Max Perkins: Editor of Genius yet?” I felt bad when I had to admit that once again I hadn’t. So, in late fall I borrowed the book from the library and started reading it.
I did indeed love the book, but I never got the chance to talk about it with Milan.
Milan and I met through our local writers’ association, to which we both belonged. Before COVID the association held a gathering once a month at a local coffee house. As a person who was new to the world of writing, it was a great place for me to be in 2019. Not only did I receive lots of good advice, but it was a joy to be with fellow writers.
Every month the usual cast of writers, like me, showed up, and others came when they could. Milan came often. His enthusiasm for being with writers showed in his kindness, his warm smile, and easy laughter. He loved to talk about ideas, writing, social issues, education, and even his pickup truck when I wanted advice about trucks. Born in France, Milan had immigrated to the United States with his mother when he was a young teenager. He had written a fascinating memoir, Ma’s Dictionary: Straddling the Social Class Divide, about his life. He had a book deal with a French publisher, so at the time I met him he was translating his memoir into French, his native language.
Milan and me at the coffee house on a Saturday morning, 2019
Milan became my mentor. He asked to read my short stories, and he gave me encouraging feedback via email, which often arrived at three or four in the morning because that is the time of day when he worked on translating his memoir into French. It was always fun to wake up in the morning and find an email from him. Even nicer — he asked me for feedback on an essay he was writing.
The second week of December in 2019 was the last time I heard from Milan. I had sent him feedback on his essay, but he didn’t respond. Over the next couple of weeks, I sent two more emails but received no answer. That wasn’t like Milan. I figured maybe he had traveled to France for the holidays or maybe he had lots of company. I tried not to think about the fact he might be seriously ill or that perhaps he had died. I had never met any of Milan’s family, and other than email, I had no way to contact him.
On January 14, 2020, I sent Milan another email but again received no response. I started checking the online obituaries every few days. Perhaps that sounds morbid, but if Milan had died, I wanted to know. In March his obituary posted. He had died on March 6, 2020, at the age of 78. I’m assuming because of the time lapse between his last email to me and his death that he’d become seriously ill before he died.
I had known Milan for almost a year. We saw each other about once a month at the coffee house gatherings. And I had attended a couple of community outreach discussion groups he had facilitated regarding his memoir and the social issues it touched upon. After reading about his passing, I was so sad. I’d lost a friend, a fellow writer, and a mentor. Milan had once said that he loved to visit with me because I could talk about ideas. It was such a nice compliment. Talking about ideas was also one of the reasons I enjoyed his company so much.
I finished reading Max Perkins: Editor of Genius shortly before Milan died, but we would never talk about the book. I would never know why he liked it so much or why he kept insisting I should read it. Instead, the book became an unfinished conversation between Milan and me.
I recently reread the book about Max Perkins. My second reading of the book was prodded by a conversation with someone about a well-known writer (who was five years old when Perkins died) and his strained relationship with his editor. At the heart of the conversation was the question: How much can an editor intercede in a piece of writing before a line is crossed and the work becomes not just the writer’s but rather almost a collaboration? This conversation reminded me of the working relationship Thomas Wolfe had with his editor Max Perkins.
Because A. Scott Berg had access to hundreds of letters between Wolfe and Perkins, he was able to write about their often-tumultuous writer-editor relationship. In his book, Berg details the massive manuscripts Wolfe presented to Perkins, and Perkins’s long hours of work with Wolfe to pare them down into manageable books. (Perkins always stated that any suggestions he made to Wolfe were always subjected to Wolfe’s complete approval.)
Berg also included the opinions of some literary critics who believed Wolfe should be able to revise his own work from a rough draft into a cohesive and readable novel without extensive help from an editor. And because Wolfe couldn’t seem to do that, the critics had questions about his overall abilities as a novelist. Eventually, this caused a rift between Wolfe and Perkins, with Wolfe leaving Scribner’s for another publishing house and a new editor. Wolfe wanted to prove the critics wrong.
It’s commendable that Berg never takes sides on either the question of Wolfe’s writing ability posed by literary critics or Perkins’s role in readying Wolfe’s work for publication. Instead, Berg presents Wolfe’s and Perkins’s letters, the accolades and criticisms by others, and the events of Wolfe’s leaving Scribner’s without interjecting his own point of view. It’s up to the reader to form an opinion. I’m sure Milan would have liked to discuss Wolfe and Perkins.
I can’t say for certain what else Milan may have liked to discuss, but I’m sure there would have been lots. Berg’s book is well researched and well written. He does an excellent job of presenting information about Perkins and the many writers Perkins worked with, such as F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, Thomas Wolfe, Nancy Hale, Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings, Taylor Caldwell, and other fine writers of the 1920s through the 1940s, many of whom are still well known today.
I wish I would have read Berg’s book when Milan first suggested it to me. We would have liked talking about Max Perkins and the many writers he worked with during his editing career. I miss Milan, and I miss the conversations we never had.
[In 2016, A. Scott Berg’s book was made into a movie called Genius. I haven’t seen the movie, but it has some A-list actors in it. I don’t always like seeing movies based on factual events because Hollywood favors dramatic scenes over reality, but I might make an exception and watch this movie because it appears to stick to the facts better than some biographical dramas. However, overall critics panned the movie, so maybe I won’t. For information on the movie’s historical accuracy, click on Genius: History vs. Hollywood. For a synopsis of reviews by movie critics, click on Genius (2016 film).]
My favorite photo: Ziva and me, Petoskey, Michigan. Photo by Max Youngquist, July 2024
A week ago I wrote a blog titled “Writing and Waiting.” I was inspired to write the blog because a short story of mine was a finalist in the Wisconsin People & Ideas magazine, and I was beyond anxious while waiting to hear if it would win anything. I was so excited and nervous. Over the last few years, I have read many of the awesome short stories that have won or placed in the contest, and to have my story be one of the nine finalists this year was thrilling. And even though I was disappointed not to win anything, I’m so honored that the judges liked my story enough to make it a semi-finalist and then a finalist.
While driving over to my mother’s in Petoskey, Michigan, on July 1, I learned that my story had been chosen as a semi-finalist. And even if it was counting my chickens before they hatched, I worried about having a decent author’s photo, just in case my story won something. Before this I had wanted an updated photo because the photos I have been using for bios are candid photos taken by my husband, a stranger at a writing conference, and my granddaughter.
My nephew, who is a wonderful photographer, was also visiting my mother. So, after I arrived at Mom’s, and after I said hello to everyone and gave everyone a hug, I asked him if he would take some pictures of me after supper. He’s a big supporter of my writing. Shortly after we ate and finished up the dishes, he walked back into the kitchen with his 35mm camera slung around his neck. “Aunt Vickie, are you ready to have your picture taken?” He loves any excuse to take photos.
We went out into my mother’s beautiful yard. The sun, nearing the end of its day, created a magical light. We included my dog Ziva in some of the photos because she wasn’t letting me leave the house without her. She seemed to know she was part of a special moment. Even when my nephew took photos of just me, Ziva stood next to me.
Before the photo session, Max talked about taking more photos of me in different settings around Petoskey. After the photo session, I so loved the photos he had taken that I told him we didn’t need to go anywhere else or take any more photos. I don’t like having my photo taken, and I often feel that photos of me don’t turn out well. So, I felt lucky to have a lot of great photos to choose from. And I reasoned that if Max took more photos, I would have too many choices.
Even though my short story didn’t end up winning or placing in the contest, every time I look at the photograph of Ziva and me, I’m filled with love and peace. It reminds me of my kind and talented nephew Max and my loving and loyal dog, Ziva.
And I’m enjoying a sense of calm now because it’s at least a month or more before I expect to hear from other editors about other stories and essays I submitted this spring. As those deadlines approach, I plan to stay cool, calm, and collected. As if!
Me in Petoskey, Michigan. Ziva is on my right, next to my side. I selected this photo too because I figured it’s good to have one without the family pet. Although Ziva and I agree that having her in the photo with me makes me look better. Photo by Max Youngquist, July 2024
More about the Wisconsin People & Ideas writing contest . . .
I’m looking forward to reading the stories written by the 2024 winners. (Click here for their bios.) I have read the stories of past winners, all of which are wonderful. But there are three stories that stick with me. All three of the stories, besides being beautifully written and thematically rich, have at least one character that is unforgettable. I’ve listed the stories alphabetically by author’s last name because it’s so hard for me to pick a favorite. You can read the stories by clicking on these links:
Published by Minnesota Historical Society Press, April 2024
Why did I read this book?
I went to the Boundary Waters Canoe Area (BWCA) in May 1982 for several days. And although I’ve never returned, I was curious to read Joe Friedrichs’s book because it’s about a place that I once visited and found beautiful beyond words, mysteriously ancient, and intensely wild.
But because Friedrichs tells the stories of people who have died or nearly died in the Boundary Waters, I hesitated to buy his book. I wondered how he would approach his topic. Then I read a review that stated Friedrich didn’t sensationalize the stories of death, but rather treated the deceased people and their loved ones with compassion. So I bought the book, and once I started reading it, I was glad I had.
What is this book about?
Friedrichs covers stories about people who have died or almost died in the Boundary Waters due to lightning, drowning, fire, cold, and falling trees. He also tells about a couple of people who entered the BWCA, disappeared, and were never seen again. While the majority of Friedrichs’s book covers tragic and near-tragic events, he also writes about other topics connected to the BWCA.
As Friedrichs vividly describes the many lakes, rivers, portages, and trails, readers are immersed in the beauty of the nearly untouched primitive wilderness that draws so many people to the Boundary Waters. He covers some of the history about how the area became a designated wilderness, and he discusses the role of fire in the life of a forest. Readers learn about the St. Louis County Rescue Squad, the Cook County Sheriff’s Department, and other rescue teams who all work together to find and rescue people who are in trouble. Or sadly, when someone has died, who work together to recover the person’s body.
What makes this book so good?
Even though Friedrichs writes about people who have died in the BWCA, he tells those stories respectfully and compassionately. He makes sure that each person he writes about is more than just the story of their death, more than just a statistic. During the research for his book, Friedrichs talked to the loved ones of those who had died in the BWCA, even traveling to other states to speak with their family and friends.
People who visit the Boundary Waters have a love of the outdoors and a passion for canoeing, kayaking, hiking, and fishing. Friedrichs, after making his first trip to the BWCA, fell in love with the untamed wilderness and moved to Minnesota, making his home near the edge of the BWCA. He has made many trips to the BWCA, and his knowledge about the area and his understanding about the type of people who find both peace and adventure there add immeasurably to his book.
While people can certainly learn from Friedrichs’s book that one needs to be prepared and practice safety when going into the wilderness, his book isn’t a how-not-to-do-things book. Because almost every single person in his book who died or almost died was prepared, experienced, and serious about safety. Instead, some unforeseen, powerful event, usually weather-related, overtook a person or people, and then no matter how much planning had been done or safety had been practiced, it all came down to luck. Humans like to believe they can control and prepare for every outcome, and that if they do, disaster will be averted. But this isn’t always true.
Finally, Friedrichs is a wonderful writer who crafted a well-organized, thoughtful, and engaging account about a one-of-a-kind place on Earth.
Reflections about my one and only Boundary Waters trip after reading Last Point of Entry . . .
When I went to the Boundary waters in May 1982, there were five of us on the trip. We were all in our early twenties. We parked our vehicles near the lake we entered and paddled to our campsite, where we stayed for the next few days. We didn’t have to portage our canoes or supplies. I was the only person who’d never been there before, and I had almost zero experience in a canoe. But I put on my life jacket every time I stepped into the canoe. I knew this would be important to help keep me afloat should we capsize. What I didn’t know, until I read Friedrichs’s book, was how fast hypothermia might have claimed my life if I had gone into the water, even with my life jacket securely buckled around my chest. He points out that May and October are popular months for people to visit the BWCA, but those months have the highest number of drownings, not because people don’t wear life jackets, but because the water is so cold and the weather is more volatile. But people like those months because there are fewer bugs. That’s why the group I was with chose May for our camping and fishing trip.
It drizzled every day we were in the BWCA, and it was cold, above freezing, but cold. We didn’t have to worry about bugs. During the day we fished on the lake by our campsite. Even in a layer of drizzle and chilled air, the scenery was incredibly beautiful. I understood that I was among something old and pristine, a wild and natural forest carved with clear lakes and rivers. Something vast that people hadn’t managed to ruin.
While our weather was cold and rainy, we didn’t experience any intense storms, so we didn’t have to worry about our canoes being swamped, trees falling on our tents, or lightning striking us. But all that came down to luck. We didn’t catch any fish either. We ate food, including steaks, that we’d brought with us. I’ve never been back to the Boundary Waters. But not because I didn’t enjoy my trip. Even in the drizzle and cold, it was amazing. But I’m not big on camping or fishing. Still, I’m glad I was able to experience the BWCA, and I understand why other people love to enter its unspoiled wilderness.
Walking through Tom’s Logging Camp on Friday was a delightful diversion from waiting.
Children wait a lot. They wait for a parent to come home or to pick them up after a soccer practice or a dance class. They wait for a sermon to end or for Christmas morning to finally arrive. They wait for each birthday, and cherish the moment when they can add the half year to their age because their big day is that much closer. They wait for the bell to ring, dismissing fifth-hour study hall, so they can walk down the hall and hope that today when they encounter the seventh-grade classmate they are hopelessly in love with, their eyes will meet in a moment of magic. Learning to wait when one is a child is good preparation for having to wait as an adult. Because having to wait is not something a child can outgrow.
And writers wait. We wait for an idea to run with. We wait for the next time we can sit down to write. We wait for readers to give us feedback. We wait to hear from editors who will accept or decline our stories, essays, or poems. We wait to learn the results from writing contests. Once our work is accepted, we wait for our pieces to be published. We wait to see if we’ve been accepted for a writer’s residency. We wait for phone calls from our computer techs who tell us we can pick up our computers.
My parents taught me the art of waiting, which is probably how most of us learn to wait.
When I was a child, under the age of eleven, my father kept an airplane at the Hales Corner Airport, in Franklin, Wisconsin. My sisters (one thirteen months younger than me and the other four years younger) and I often went to the airport with my father. He would get the urge to work on his plane or hangout with other pilots, shooting the breeze about flying and planes — much like when I’m compelled to write or when I crave the company of other writers, so I can shoot the breeze about writing and books.
Unless my sisters and I were going on a flight with my father, we weren’t invited into the hangar. He would tell us to wait in the car, that he’d be back soon. It was never soon. He would crank down the windows, but heat stacked up in the car anyway, making us too warm. In addition to being bored beyond belief and hot, we became irritated. Our definition of soon was clearly at odds with his definition. We had a tipping point at which we risked his anger and got out of the car. But we never entered the hangar to ask him when we were going home. By a young age, we had learned this simply wasn’t to be done. This is partly why I can wait for months and months to hear from editors without contacting them, even when they’ve stated, “If you don’t hear from us after six months, please feel free to contact us.” I may never hear from them, and still they will most likely never hear from me. Those editors are in a hangar, and I’m not going in there.
At the airport my father always parked close to a tall metal pole topped with a bright orange windsock. The pole was surrounded by green grass, which was encircled by a ring of rocks, all the size of small dogs curled up for a nap. We would climb over the rocks and sit in the grass and watch the windsock as it shifted above us. The cooler air and freedom from the car helped, but our boredom and irritability soon returned. Eventually, our father would come out of the hangar. He might say a few terse words about us sitting around the pole instead of inside the car, or not. But either way we knew better than to ask him, “What took you so long?”
My ability to wait quietly doesn’t mean that waiting to hear about something I’ve submitted is easy. Far from it. I can pace with the best of the tigers. I perform menial tasks to pass time, but I end up feeling like I’m swimming in a pool filled with Salvador DalÃ’s melting watches. As a projected date of a notification nears, I check my email incessantly. One moment, I convince myself that no one will ever be interested in publishing my work again. The next moment, I daydream that I’ve won a contest or that an editor has so loved my work, they gush about it, using bouquets of purple prose and ask, “Can you send us more?” (Yeah, Walter Mitty lives inside of me.)
When I first started submitting my work and received rejections, I was convinced I must be a lousy writer. I contemplated doing something easier — maybe washing windows on tall buildings, even though I’m terrified of heights. Then an editor sent me a rejection saying she had almost selected my flash fiction piece but had decided to hold off. She would keep it on the back burner but probably wouldn’t end up using it. It was an encouraging rejection, so I kept writing. A month later, she notified me that she had decided to print my story after all. Perhaps, I thought, I can write.
I keep submitting and mostly receive rejections. But I get just enough acceptances. So, like my old dog who hangs around the kitchen, hoping at any moment that she will get a treat, I keep checking my email, hoping at any moment I might receive an acceptance.
I get so bad about checking my email that I don’t open it if I’m working at my computer, I leave my phone in another room, and I make deals with myself. If I write for thirty minutes, I can check my email. After I walk the dog, I can check my email. After I finish all the dishes, I can check my email. After I’m done having coffee with a friend, I can check my email. If I go an hour without checking, I pat myself on the back, then hurry to check my email. The only reason I will confess this is because I’ve read essays written by other writers who admit they repeatedly check their email, especially when they know the date of an editor’s announcement is imminent. And if a writer submits enough pieces, there is always an announcement coming soon.
I often think of my mother when I’m waiting for an email from an editor. Before I learned to drive, I relied on my parents to drop me off and pick me up from school events, a job that fell mostly to my mother, who was always late. And there were no cell phones. To ease my worry while I waited, I played little games: If I counted to sixty, then she would come, then maybe one hundred, then perhaps fifty. I alternated that game with a counting-the-cars game: the tenth car on the road would be hers, then maybe the sixth car, then perhaps the eighth car.
For me, to write is to submit, and to submit is to wait. I find the more I submit, the easier waiting becomes because without waiting too long, I can look forward to (or be disappointed by) an email from an editor. But I check my email even more — a random reinforcement schedule is an effective motivator. If I have only a few submissions on the loose, it’s easier to ignore my email — at least until a notification date approaches.
I’m currently a finalist in a writing contest and waiting to hear if I’ve won anything. I have a short story set in 1860 entered in a historical fiction contest. My short story collection, which I entered in a contest, is hopefully being read and passed along to the next round. I’m waiting for an anthology of essays to be published because I have an essay in it. I have a short story under consideration for a British journal, and an essay under consideration for yet another British journal. I have a flash fiction piece entered in a regional contest. I’m hoping to hear about two articles I pitched to a local publication.
And so, I wait. I don’t sit next to a windsock. I don’t count seconds in my head or cars on the road. Instead, I push myself to keep writing. To get out into the world. To read a good book. To hear an author speak. To have coffee with friends. To go to lunch with my husband. To take my grandkids to Tom’s Logging Camp where we can look at old logging tools, feed ravenous trout and goats, and be ignored by an uppity llama who isn’t hungry.
And I silently thank my parents for making me wait around when I was a child.
Today after I post this blog, I’ll check my email. Then after I clean the bathroom, I’ll check my email. I have guests coming for dinner, and after they leave, I’ll check my email. (Perhaps, my parents didn’t make me wait long enough before exiting the hangar or picking me up from school.)
A friend of mine suggested I might like to read Djinn Patrol on the Purple Line. Not only did she love the story, she liked how Deepa Anappara structured the novel. And my friend enjoyed how many of the chapter titles were also the beginning of the first sentence in a chapter. For example:
THREE WEEKS AGO I WAS ONLY A SCHOOLKID BUT–
–now I’m a detective and also a tea-shop boy.
(And what a great sentence it is.)
What is this book about?
Nine-year-old Jai lives in India in a poor, crowded neighborhood referred to as a basti. Bordered by a smoldering rubbish dump and enveloped by an unrelenting gray smog, Jai’s life in the basti is hemmed in by poverty, garbage, pollution, and classism. The wealthy lifestyle of the hi-fi residents who live in luxurious skyscrapers separated by a high wall from his basti is beyond his reach. He lives with his older sister Runi-Didi and his Ma and Papa. His best friends are Faiz and Pari, who are also classmates.
The story opens with the disappearance of Bahadur, a quiet and unassuming boy who others rarely notice. When Bahadur doesn’t turn up, his parents and other concerned adults from the basti beg the local police to investigate. But the police refuse to take Bahadur’s disappearance seriously, and instead they threaten to have the basti bulldozed if its residents insist on causing trouble over Bahadur’s disappearance.
In answer to the indifference of the police, Jai, Faiz, and Pari declare themselves detectives. Jai, who loves to watch detective and crime shows on TV, fancies himself as the head detective. The three friends wander through their basti and the Bhoot Bazaar, asking people if they’ve seen Bahadur. They even take the Purple Line train to a neighboring city on a hunch that Bahadur may have run away or been kidnapped and taken to that city.
Soon other basti children go missing, and fear, like the pervasive smog, engulfs the basti residents. Jai, Faiz, and Pari are forbidden to leave home without an adult. But they defy their parents, and while continuing to look for Bahadur, they make inquiries about the other children who have gone missing.
What makes this book so good?
Deepa Anappara was born in India and worked as a journalist in her home country from 1997 to 2008, where she wrote about education. There is no doubt that Anappara’s personal and professional connections to India enabled her to create the realistic world in which her impoverished and marginalized characters live. Although her characters are fictional, Anappara’s portrayal of their joys, fears, hopes, and disappointments are heartbreakingly real. And most importantly, Anappara takes care not to sensationalize or diminish her characters’ stories. Instead, she has written a literary novel about the worst kind of crime. Her beautiful writing along with her measured restraint carries readers through the difficult scenes.
During her years as a journalist, Anappara interviewed many disadvantaged children, whom she found to be full of “humor, sarcasm, and energy.” While working as a journalist she learned that children from poor families disappeared at a higher rate than children from families in better circumstances. These abductions rarely made the news unless a kidnapper was caught or the details of a kidnapping were particularly gruesome. It upset Anappara that the stories of the missing children “were nowhere to be found.”
When Anappara first tried to write Djinn Patrol, she labeled her attempt a failure. In 2016, she returned to her novel. This time when she thought about the children she had interviewed in India, she remembered “their determination to survive in a society that often willfully neglected them” and she knew the story must be told from the perspective of the children. She found a way into her story, and after reading her novel, I can’t imagine it being told any other way. The story is told mostly in first person by Jai, who is at turns earnest, careless, unselfish, jealous, kind, and churlish, but who, despite his faults and missteps, captured my heart. Other times the story is told in third person through the point of view of other children.
I have to return the borrowed book to my friend. But I ordered my own copy to keep on my bookshelf. In part because like my friend, I admire Anappara’s amazing use of voice, point of view, and structure. Perhaps, I won’t read the book again, or maybe I’ll only read parts of it. Regardless, I couldn’t bear the thought of being separated from Jai, Faiz, and Pari and their dreams. And that’s the other part.
Writing Near the Lake 