Loss and Creativity

Yesterday Mark met me out at Good Harbor Beach and we talked for along while about the things we are working on now. We haven’t seen each other much lately. I’m still in a reclusive mode following the death of my father and Mark has a lot of conflicting stuff going on. His beloved old copper-colored Toyota truck died a sad death. It has been replaced with a brand new silver one and he seems to like it just fine but it is somehow not quite “him” yet.

He also has a bunch of meetings in Hollywood next month with some HBO people as well others to talk about his book. Apparently they think it would make a good mini-series. It’s one of those weird situations where you want to tell everybody and yet know that’s not a good idea because what if nothing happens? All of us have been through that with agents, editors, publishing houses. It’s a tough call. Three times in my life I’ve gotten agents who LOVED my book — loved it, loved it, loved it. Then — nothing. I know how humbling it is to have all your eager and excited friends say “what have you heard about your book?” and to have to say “nothing...” Ouch.

But more than those two, he is sad about the loss of his friend John Symonds, the fisherman whose body was found washed up on the rocks in Smith’s Cove a couple weeks ago. He had been working on his lobster boat, as he always was, on the dock off of the North Shore Arts Association’s parking lot on Pirates Lane. Mark had talked to him the afternoon before. The last thing he said to Mark was,”I sure do like that book you wrote.” Then he walked back down to his boat to keep working. When Mark arrived. When Mark arrived at Pirates Lane the next afternoon the police were standing next to John’s truck while the ambulance guys were retrieving his body from the rocks below. Nobody knows if he had a heart attack or a stroke and fell or if it was just an accident. He was always on that boat — always.

So Mark has done what writers do. He is writing about John. He told me yesterday that his tribute to John is now at over 2500 words and may be twice that before he is done. He isn’t sure yet what he will do with the article when he finishes it but he is working on it everyday.

I was telling him that I have been doing a rewrite of my second novel. It is something I can do and love doing right now when there isn’t a lot I love doing. So both of us are finding release from the loss and the encounter with our own impermanence by writing. That is a good thing.

My friend Clare left for New York this morning. She is another person who dealt with the death of her mother by writing. She wrote a LOT. One of her works, a short play, has been accepted into a short-work theater festival in New York. She left early this morning to take the train to New York where she will meet with the person directing her play. She was so excited. I saw her last night and her red hair seemed to be glowing with excitement. I am very happy for her.

I realized something last night after Clare left. We’re lucky, people like Clare and Mark and I, we have a place to put our frustration and our sadness and our sense of loss. We can use it for something — something that may turn out to be a play in New York or a HBO mini-series or another novel. That is a blessing.

I am thinking hopeful thoughts today for Clare during her meeting with her new director and for Mark with his article about another dead Gloucester Fisherman — and for me too. May our work do us proud.

Thanks for reading.