Shaved Meats, Piled High: October 2017
Deer Me
It was a gorgeous autumn day and I was driving to my trainer's house in rural Baltimore County. At least twice that day I had thought about cancelling. I was feeling tired after a trip to New York, but I told myself it was because of rich food and lavish drinks and thus -- no excuses.
I was heading north on a two-lane country-ish road. A truck was headed south. There was a flash of brown and white on the west side of the road. I hit my brakes, but the deer bounced off the driver's side bumper back to the west side of the road. It died almost instantly, I'm sorry to say. The car I was driving, a Honda Civic Zipcar, was still drivable, I had no injuries. (The air bag didn't even deploy.)
In a book or a film, that scene would be portentous, right? It would have to matter. Something would change. Think Pennies From Heaven when Steve Martin's character (briefly) resolves to do right by his wife after a frightening encounter on a highway. But the fact is, I was profoundly, consciously happy for my life before I hit the deer. My husband had surprised me the night before with an early anniversary date night. My daughter had been a total saint all week. My agent and editor liked the new pages I had shared from my next book. They even liked the working title.
Two days before my date with the deer, I had stood on the train platform at Penn Station and willed myself to remember the art of consciousness, which I had learned in a "minicourse" on Japanese culture with my high school principal. I had stared at the blue sky and the red chimneys and the ever-changing view of this particular slice of Baltimore and felt acute pleasure. Later that day, I had a discussion with [name redacted to avoid name-dropping] about the lost art of boredom. Boredom was a huge part of my childhood. We lived at the end of a street that wound through a dark, wooded park, too isolated for me to join in after-school activities. When I complained of being bored, my mother often recited to me a verse from this wonderful book.
Writers suck at living in the moment. Hence, we become writers. If a fairy godmother appeared before me and offered me whatever I wanted if I could just learn to always be in the moment, what would I do? I'd probably say no because what I want most is to describe the moment. I'd already be thinking about how to tell the story of the day I realized I had a fairy godmother.
About three hours after I hit the deer, I walked to my daughter's school to pick her up. She was sitting on the grass, talking to one of her best friends about the challenges she faces with her temperament. I let them sit on me and throw grass on me. We attempted cartwheels and I was reminded how terrified I am to hurl my body through space that way. Later, my daughter and I walked through a nearby park, gathered chestnuts and leaves, and then inspected the damage to "my" Zipcar, parked nearby. There was hair still stuck to it.
My daughter asked: "Can I see the deer?"
That's my girl.
READ/READING: Unruly Women, Anne Helen Petersen; The Burning Girl, Claire Messud; If I Die Tonight, Alison Gaylin; Manhattan Beach, Jennifer Egan.
REREADING: The More the Merrier, Lenora Mattingly Weber. Beany Malone was ahead of her time; if she were around today, she'd have her own HGTV show.
Johnny Deadline, Bob Greene. The early columns of Bob Greene are in many ways worse (The Ms. Bob Green World contest) and better (his profiles) than remembered.
ME, ME, ME: SUNBURN receives a starred review from Library Journal's Liz French: "Just try to read this fantastic stand-alone from the creator of the 'Tess Monaghan' series slowly. Modern noir at its best, it will delight old-movie lovers, satisfy suspense readers, and reward Lippman's legion of fans."
Laura Lippman
October 2017