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One of the interesting things about all the journalists asking so many questions in such a concentrated space of time was that it made me think about things that I hadn’t put into conscious verbal thoughts. You know, you sort of know it, but you haven’t thought it through completely, than someone says something and you have that aha moment where it all clicks into place.
One of those moments was in Rome. I no longer remember which reporter asked the pertinent question. He asked me, through Olga our interpreter, about my creative process. Didn’t I find that the constant grind of deadlines sort of used me up creatively. Not his wording exactly. I told him, it could, but my deadline pressure was at least in part my own fault. I kept thinking I’d catch up. I did not tell the reporter, but I fell behind in deadlines during my divorce. I have spent the last six years thinking I’ll catch up. I finally realized that you don’t catch up to lost time. It’s lost. So just before going to Italy I’d had my revelation that I couldn’t catch up, especially with the books getting longer and longer. (Still hoping to break that trend.) I finally let it go. I’ll make the deadline that I’ve committed to, but no more killing myself to try and catch up. I also explained to him that writing is an odd business because on one hand it is a business, and on the other it is art. Art and business are never a comfy mix.
I explained that I could have more time off between books now, if I wanted, but that I understood that my missed deadline effected not just my publisher’s bottom line, but the bookstore managers (some have told me that the sales of my books have made their profit margin for a month, or six months, or that year. I’m still amazed by that.) Once you affect the bottom line of any company, you then impact their employees. This is a business. I’ve treated it like a business for my entire career. But it is also a form of art.
I heard myself saying to the reporter in Rome that creativity is like a well, and I’d been drawing water from the well so long that I was draining it dry. That I’d realized just before we left for Italy that I needed time to let my well of creativity fill back up. And that part of that process was the trip to Italy. I’d written in my writer’s notebook in the airport in Atlanta, but beyond that I didn’t pick up my notebook while we were in Europe. I have used a writer’s notebook (a spiral steno book) since junior high school. We were gone to Italy for nine days, and I never touched it the whole time. I did not write, at all while we were gone. I just observed, and lived. I rested. Yeah, the interview process was occasionally trying, but I rested part of me that doesn’t do the interviews, or the photos. I rested that part of me that is the well, that you spend your whole life filling up, then you draw on it, to write. Well, I’ve been drawing on it for a long time, and not really allowing myself time to rest and refill the tank.
On the plane back from Italy I finally picked up my notebook and wrote. Partially to keep myself from running screaming up and down the aisles of the plane. The flight crew and other passengers tend to frown on such behavior. So, to distract myself I wrote. I wrote an Anita scenario that I won’t do next book, but somewhere down the line. I also read Ann Rule’s book, “GREEN RIVER RUNNING RED.” It was the first serial killer anything I’d read in about a year. I’d made Jon take away my books on serials because I had enough knowledge to write my books, and I’d just had enough. I needed a transfer to something less violent, less . . . just less. But I’d followed the green river case off and on, and now that it was solved I wanted to know how it had all come together. I trusted Ms. Rule to get her facts right, her research is always impressive, and I do not say that lightly.
So I sat on the plane reading true crime about one of the most prolific serial killers that this country has ever seen, and repeating my matra in my head. “I must master my fear.” I was talking about my fear of flying, but I finally realized it was more than that. I’ve told several of you at events, and I think here on the blog that the next Anita plot I had in mind was too violent. That Anita and I didn’t have the courage, or the strength for this plot. But, you know what, somewhere in Italy I found that it isn’t that we aren’t strong enough, but it was true that we needed a break. I needed a time and a space when I wasn’t writing, or thinking about writing. The near constant interviews and social interaction helped distract me. Or maybe it was just how much I needed the break. I know what the next Anita book will be, and it is the plot that I said I couldn’t do, not now. I guess after nearly fifteen years of writing Anita I’m allowed to flinch once, but no more of that. Besides, somewhere in Italy, or on the plane coming back while I fought my phobia, I rediscovered something else. Fun. The next plot isn’t just about blood and crime and sorrow. It’s also about Edward coming back on stage; yea! It’s about having Edward ask Anita about how to talk to Peter about sex. After all, he reasons, she has a younger brother about Peter’s age. She gets to inform him that that isn’t the kind of thing she discusses with her teenage brother. We get to see Edward trying to be a good dad in a scary Edward sort of way. We get to see how Peter is coping with his therapy, being fifteen, and playing junior mercenary with his would-be step dad. The plot is not just about the dark stuff. It’s also about friendship and other fun things.
I don’t know what it was Italy, but it renewed me. When I think of the trip to England, I think of places; Glastonbury Tor, Avebury, Chalice Well, London. But when I think of Italy, I think of people. I mean Palatine Hill and the coliseum were cool, but it’s the people that made Italy. The wait staff at Babbington’s tea room who saved us several times on the trip. Not only was it the best high tea we’d had since England, but they serve wonderful food at an hour when most Italy restaurants aren’t even open for dinner. Italy had good hot tea at almost every restaurant we went to. The publishing house staff, everyone, first to last, made us feel welcome. I can’t explain what they do differently in Italy as opposed to America, but there’s something warmer, more intimate about the culture. We came away from Italy feeling like we’d actually made friends and not just business acquaintances. Not what we expect on business trips here in the states. La Rampa, a wonderful restaurant just off the Spanish steps that Olga and Elana took us to. They made us feel very at home, and the food was perfecto. I promise to only use Italian that is obvious in meaning, or to add translations. Stefano and Cristina who took us out to eat after the big signing. I can no longer remember the restaurant, but the dinner table conversation was lovely. Trinity loved her souvenir; thank you. The shop keeper who was closing up, but kindly helped us find our way to the Pantheon one night. Not everyone went out of their way to be helpful, but most did. I’m not sure the same would be said if an Italian author came here. I hope so, but I’m not sure of it.
So here’s a thank you to everyone that made us feel welcome in Italy. It’s funny, poets and writers have been going there for centuries to renew their creativity. I’d always sort of made fun of writers who had to travel to get ideas. Willa Cather said, “Most of the basic material a writer works with is acquired before the age of fifteen.” I believe that. More, I think that idea find the writer, not the other way around. But I have to take it back. I didn’t really get ideas in Italy, and maybe that’s why it was so restful. I wasn’t traveling for research. I was just seeing things, experiencing things. I had no agenda on the few days Jon and I had on our own. We just enjoyed ourselves. Who knew I had to go all the way to Italy to figure that out.