9. Down to Business

Monday, 16 September.  2 p.m.  Cloudy, sprinkles to light showers.

School started today.  Cathy drives to and from Cambridge the first few days.  I learn of Frank's mother' illness.  I am in town a lot buying home-type things.  Thomas is n school Wednesdays and Fridays from 9 to noon.

It is high time I settle down to serious writing.  I am still a bit uncomfortable sitting at my makeshift desk (the buffet table) in the drawing room, and I will use that as an excuse as long as I can, though my desk is supposed to be here this week.  I continue to have many reactions and discoveries to my own life, but little sense of what order to put them in or how to relate them to people outside of me, or, more difficult still, how to fashion them as someone else's story.  In spite of this I continue to have my dreams of success, as I explore and try to understand the secrets of my life.

As I was standing outside the night before I had heard what sounded like a clarinet and a big party.  Last night, the unmistakable sounds of "Casablanca" echoed through the air, and I finally realized that what I heard was an open air movie at Audley End, about a mile away and below us: Westfields is near the top of the hills south of town, Audley End lies in a sort of natural amphitheater toward the west.  I brought a chair outside and sat alone in the clear, cool (almost cold) night air, with a glass of beer and listened to the familiar dialogue, transported to far away places in the past.  I wondered why I identified with Bogart, thinking that perhaps his relationship with Ingrid Bergman echoed mine with M. in the late 60's and early 70's: in love in the past, strangers in the present.  Perhaps I too was as noble as Rick, loving a person, wanting the best for that person, even if it meant giving up all hopes of your own relationship with that person.  I am at a loss of how to explain my strong wish to simply vanish into the imaginary world of "Casablanca" and become one of its players.  It's silly to think that the trying times of the late 60's and early 70's can equate to early 40's in France, then, again, if Bogie and Bergman can "always have Paris" why can't I always have L.A.?

I read a line in the paper on Sunday, quoting Fitzgerald: "Show me a hero and I will write you a tragedy."  Was Rick a hero (he seemed so at the end)?  If so, what was his tragedy?  Perhaps we view Rick post tragedy, in a new kind of story. (What ever happens to Hamlet in later life?)  Perhaps Victor Laslo, not Rick, is the real hero: the jailed freedom fighter on the run from tyranny, fearless and ready to strike at the enemies of freedom as soon as he can.

For all of Victor Laslo's great qualities, however, it is Rick that seems to have the most to lose, perhaps because Victor is in the fight and knows and is willing to risk what is at stake, while Rick has put his old memories to rest, having now to resurrect them against his will.  Laslo champions ideas, Rick champions his own heart.  It is only in the union of ideas and heart (Rick at the end) which raises any character to real hero.  Laslo, at the end, has a similar, but opposite change, as he discovers Rick's personal involvement in Laslo's life.

Tuesday 17 September.  7 a.m.  Clear, not too cold outside.  An earlier start today!  Where do I start?

Wednesday 18 September.  7 a.m.  Bit of haze, but I see blue.  Supposed to have been cold last night, but the heater working.

When I wrote my book, I did it in adversity: teaching, lawyering and writing.  I worked well on my own.  How will I do here?  There is no adversity but the worries I manufacture each day.  My best work came when I worked.  Inspiration is less of a grand thing with words that magically appear and more of small moments of large insight and hard work at finding the right words, sticking to it – or am I just paraphrasing Thomas Edison?

I worked on re-writing my opening chapter yesterday.  As much as I wanted to hurry, could not, got caught up in the words and, for all that, not stopping for lunch and writing two letters, was in a rush to leave at 3 p.m. for school (football shoes and plimsolls).

The question for today is: what is the best place to start after my introductory chapter.  If I accept the premise of my book, namely that I have something to say, then I don't need to keep justifying why I'm writing.

3:55 p.m.  Did a little rewriting today before I got caught up in tasks: bought an extra dresser, took Thomas to school, went to building materials store for salt for softener.  Fixed lunch and worked on computer, trying to figure out how to back up the check register on hard disk.  And that's a day of it.  (Thankfully I managed to get the system on!).

I had the frightening thought at lunch that my present situation in Saffron Walden is surprisingly similar to my first year of college, when I lived at Flintridge and flunked out.  Here I am in the lap of luxury with a somewhat difficult task before me: to write a book.  In 1969 the task was to make the transition to college.  I was not successful before and I must not succumb to the easy life again.  At Flintridge I often skipped class and, without many friends, tended to become isolated from my school work.  I can see the same thing happening here as I attempt to focus on the difficult work of writing.  The children and Cathy certainly keep me involved in their actions, but whether that is a distraction or an important life line to where I'm going is hard to say.

The rain which threatened today.  It became very dark around 2:30 or so, but the clouds left a few tiny droplets and nothing more.  The sky is now clearing.  The drought continues.

Thursday 19 September.  6:50 a.m.  Clear, cold (low 50's).  The really hard part of this adventure is listening and trying to determine what, if anything, is to happen next!

Friday 20 September.  2:23 p.m.  My writings are books of discovery, not invention.  Is there a way to use the latter to suit my abilities at the former?  Make up a real or imagined story in order to explain it?

Sunday 22 September.  Back from the Sickings.  Sunday mass at Our Lady and the English Martyrs in Cambridge.  We went punting on the Cam and I bought a used Canon AE-1, like the one I had when we were married.  Visit to Audley End in the afternoon with Robert and Thomas.  Mara and Jeffrey clean the house! 

May have the organizing thought for my book.  My teapot teaches me patience: pour slowly without spilling, pour quickly and it drips! 

Monday 23 September.  8:45 am.  Cloudy, cool.  My desk arrived!  Another dream in which Gogo appears.  It wasn't chilling like the last time, but I still sensed that she was dead and wasn't supposed to be there.  Mer tagged along in the shadows.

The New Students at St. John's