7PM – Sat 23 July 77
D and I went for a long walk today, had a great talk. He told me all about his passionate relationship with English girl – asking “Do you really want to know?” I did – I managed to be very hands off. Said he’d written her “lyrical loveletters” and she is saving money to come to US at Christmas. Bit of a downer to find other people have split minds like me. I told him a little about R and more about my husband. I had to hope he wouldn’t see it “retaliation” for what he’d told me. (R would have.) Fantasies can be ugly if they prevent you from experiencing reality. We hugged – he left – I know he thinks I’m too “intense”. I was stupid enough to read him my peach poem. On the other hand if a guy can’t handle my poetry where am I? R only likes poems he knows are about him. Wrote a whiny letter to Avril (who usually can handle whiny letters). Good today – bike, swimming, walk with D. Long letter to Mom and Dad. Reading Stella Gibbons’ Cold Comfort Farm – can’t stay grumpy – laughing too hard. Settling into my spaceship – my own body – first day of the rest of my life. Listening to wonderfully crazy modern opera on the radio. Sun 24 July 77 Reading E. Ogilvie’s Theme for Reason. How can people still write novels interspersed with long nature descriptions – the pert chickadees and the blue moiré sea. I think it’s immoral for a writer of any talent to inflict this stuff on an overstuffed world. Shape now the key (used to be all about time-wasting.) I pledge to concentrate on making each day a triumph. The First Word The First Page. The First Day. 4PM Wrote 4 pages of A Demon Roused. Horribly dissatisfied. Patricia Highsmith on the suspense novel no damn help at all. Everything I’ve ever written pure dunder written by a dunderhead. Restrained myself from calling R. Face facts. Left DC June 4. This coming month has to be gotten through. Feel I suffered my “breakdown” last spring was a crisis of identity. Attacked by the writing thing (no money, no approval, no relationships) attacked by the relationship thing (R too critical, wanting to “change” me.) Starving myself. Long mad midnight walks rampaging thru Chevy Chase with dogs. The Devon situation explicable when seen in this light. (He’s TOO good looking – it’s like a fantasy.) Now about my book. New beginning ALL wrong and I couldn’t figure out why. The characters seem alive. 1) First Person Difficult. My husband always said omniscient narrator no longer possible, making me want to do it. However I have to admit you need to be somebody – an extra character and that’s a bigger pain in the neck. 2) Scene Problematic. I’ve GOT to get out of England. It’s artificial. How about if I don’t say where it is? Will the specificity cope come after me? 3) Format (Suspense novel) rough because I have to be the one who knows what’s going on and I want to write my first draft in a narcoleptic state. Means I have to be happy making a huge ness with a million false starts and then write the thing ALL OVER when I know what’s going on. But I feel time running out on me. Goddam it. I should be happy to explore. Why all this pressure? Two novels unaccepted, why write a fourth? Am I deliberately trying to drive myself to the brink of insanity? Also I HATE Sunday because the pool is packed, no stores are open, and there’s no mail. Devon and his roommates Blair & Brian drop by and I struggle to appear sane. Hard for me. 6PM Called R. to yell at him. He wasn’t there – thank GOD. Maybe I just want to punish him. He certainly deserves it. 1:30 PM Mon 25 July 77 Dark night of the soul finally over. Very athletic today – feel deliciously tired. Decide I should go back to Washington no matter what. My choices are my choices. My happiness can’t be dependent on how people treat me. I plan to use my time to become powerful – to be the person I’m supposed to be. In the drugstore line I was reading up on the showbiz personalities – nobody interesting before 30 and I have a few years yet. Forget about weight – just follow & earn to love “virtuous routine”. (I’m a size seven – that’s pretty good.) Today it POURED rain – night baseball Devon wanted to attend out of the question. He suggested we switch to a movie when he called this am. Still feel stilted with him unfortunately. Theme for Reason’s sole interest is that it was written by a lesbian. Still, she isn’t very forthcoming. “Marriage of convenience?” Really? Assault on library. Planning to ransack the place. Leafed through Helen Hayes (poor woman); enjoying Thurber’s My World and Welcome To It . Tues. 26 July 77 9:40 AM Sitting on stonewall in full sunlight in my black bikini waiting for pool to open. Swim and sunbathe till ll:30 when mail comes. After 7 I can return – that way I miss the crowds. Exercise, coffee, 3 glasses water. The Regime. I’m down to $4. Embarrassing to be taken out last night by Devon & his roommates. (We saw Star Wars. Childish, but they were into it.) Sent letter to Mom & D asking for stock certificates. They won’t like it. Dinner should have been nice but barbecue very messy. Wore my tightest jeans and my pink French “Trés chic” t-shirt. Devon surprised me by talking on and on about how beautiful I am. Started to get stoked – in fact I was horny as hell. I would have taken the three of them on if I could have avoided the interpersonal madness that would result. They all have beautifully athletic bodies. But I’m starting to get a feeling that if I just sit in my deer blind a bit longer Devon will come to me. Every now and then I get an “R – flash”, like some synaptic slipup. What will I think of this years from now? Mirror images ache, then fade. Cold Comfort Farm exactly 100 pages too long (but I think most books are). Take a long hot Jean Nate bubble bath and read The Thornbirds.
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1 July 77
Today I should start my new novel – always the worst part. Lauren called to APOLOGIZE for our dinner. I said nothing to apologize for I had a wonderful time. She said she had an “off” night and they are upping my print run. So I guess I’m “on” again in case I write another Eng gothic historical paperback they want (don’t hold your breath). Threw aside Berckman’s Crown Estate suddenly can’t stand other people’s writing. Very disllusioning dinner with Chuck Kornowitz. My piece de resistance crab manicotti in Newburg sauce turned out exquisitely but he only cared about the booze. When I mentioned The Great American novel he said it’s been written and offered to send it to me. He edited it! He only laughed at one thing I said – he called Athenaeum a “very, very small publishing house” and I said, “More of a hut, really”. He obviously thought I was going to have sex with him so that he would read my book. I turned him down but offered to make up a bed for him on sofa (he really seemed incapacitated by drink but he blamed it on jetlag.) He insisted on leaving, looking very cranky. Did wonder aloud who the hell I think I am? What’s a little sex between “friends” (or supplicants & donors?) Letter from Devon (I needed it) cheered me up extraordinarily. Just in the nick of time. I’m a loner, he’s a loner too – do two loners make a party? Having a hard time feeling beautiful when I am not dancing and 50situps a day and one filthy bike ride are no substitute. But this seminarian writes a mean letter. Loved my novel. Looks forward to servicing – er surveying Boston in my company. Four hours on novel produces 8 bad pages. It’s a start. Ms. MacManus foisting her probate lawyer nephew Henry on me. He came over to invite me to the beach (and help me walk the dogs.) He’s a pale, pale Ryder (he’d have to be Peter Frampton to arouse me at this stage) and I feared he’d get sunstroke but I said yes. Saw Jabberwocky – very Monty Python. Wrote a long wailing, complaining letter to Avril. Try to read Women & Madness but it’s too poorly written and repels every attempt. Norah Lofts White Hell of Pity – very depressing. You’re pretty much asking for it if you pick up a book with that title. 11:00 AM Sun 3 July 77 Had to walk Genevieve’s dogs all the way to Columbus & Ninth to find NY Times. Henry cancelled – I didn’t know why till Ms MacManus told me he found out I wasn’t Jewish! Now she tells me! (She’s not Jewish either.) Reading First Person Singular – actually some helpful dating advice. Is it too crass to count on having sex with Devon July 20? (That’s as long a wait as I think I can stand.) 12:45 PM Mon 4 July 77 Almost strangled the dogs today. Sam rolled in horseshit in the park. Had to wash them both. Then they bothered me so much during my exercises I had to lock them up. They howled. Penance all around. Ms. McManus invited me to see New York, New York. We enjoyed Unsung Cole last night – and she is going to Martha’s Vineyard so won’t be around to make me her new chew toy. 11:25 PM Wish I could read the future. New York, New York none too reassuring about male/female relationships. Reading Leonard Woolf’s depressing Downhill All the Way. His mind so different from V’s you could call it “antithetical”. Tomorrow’s excitement – double feature of Shame and The Passion of Anna. 12:25 AM 9 July 77 R’s divorce final. His relationship with me? Still in “separation” phase. Trying to hate him but its not working. Pity the petty man who revels in bondage. Feeling sorry for all his future lovers is the best I can do. He would respect me more if I was less sexually excitable, and that’s the ugly truth. Totally resigned that Harcourt will reject Secaire. Went to Patti Smith concert with Brett’s brother. Kind of fun the way she barks out her poetry; a little too butch for me. He is an incipient pedophile remarking on every thirteen year old he saw (or possibly he was just trying to annoy me.) 11:45 PM Sun 10 July 77 Loved Rhoda Lerman’s The Girl That He Marries – never were reviews so misleading! July 14, 1977 Power out in the whole city! Living by candles. No elevator doesn’t affect us readers. Doorman up and down the stairs with flashlights looking for old people. Dogs poop on balcony. I seize any excuse not to write. 9 PM Fri 22 July 1977 – Mrs. McManus’ condo Pevensey Old Farms New deal: all I have to do for luxe pad is write an article for Mrs. McManus’ real estate mag. I think rich people are masters of bait and switch but of course I say yes. Contemplate novel about homicidal house-sitter called Other People’s Houses but I see from Books In Print it’s been taken. Lying here making new breakthroughs in the art of writing sideways; disinfecting my ear from swimming. Wanted to write about Monica Dickens’ Man Overboard or N Ephron’s Crazy Salad or at the very least make a New Plan for My Novel but find I can’t. Was very “good” today – swam, bicycled, some writing. Allowed to eat anything here luckily her food is not too outrageous – hamburger and zucchini salad. Marinated artichoke hearts. Refuse to shred my nerves further by hating myself. My body’s not perfect but I do feel on the home stretch to self-control. Give me six weeks and I’ll be flying. Emotionally, I’m a mess. Devon brought up marriage and I am smotheringly certain that I can’t live up to either of our expectations. Be fun to try – that’s not the point. I fear the idiot side of me that just keeps coming out. Can’t seem self-assured, playfully grave instead sexually voracious and maniacally ridiculous. Anyway Intuition told me he would call tonight between 8-10 as soon as he could be reasonably sure the Oldsters are out of the way (he is visiting his parents who have “lights out” – i.e. are blitzed – by nine pm). However Experience says if I expect the call, he wont call. (Learned this from Ryder). He called at 8:30. I cracked too many jokes – conversation painfully bizarre. He seemed calm and unfreaked. He got a new job that gives him more “room” (he’s a waiter- he’s sick of teaching people) asked when he could “show up” and suggested tomorrow. Moving a lot faster than I expected from my memories of Shy Boy. Do I want to have my fantasies played fast and loose with in this way? (Am I over Ryder?) Do I want to get over him? Or are mismatches of Time & Desire my Fate? I am certainly NOT turning down D’s offer to see what there can be for us. Companion? Lover? Second self? Brother? Alas he is too blindingly handsome for me to be rational. If he comes tomorrow there won’t be time for more than necking (has to get to new job by 4.) Forget “July 20”, entered on my calendar as S Day. I WILL NOT MAKE LOVE TO A SCHEDULE. We have to have a night alone to make things happen. I can be patient – can he? Well, I can be honest. Best anyone can do. 10:45 PM Back from a walk, reliving my years as teenage prowler. And peeper. These walks are very informational as I spy couples hanging plants & merrimekkos, having fights and pouring wine. Macramé is de rigueur. Try to imagine Devon & me in similar situations. Celebrate my freedom from R. Nice to know I can go to parties without fearing R’s paranoia & restrictions mixed with his exhibitionism & flamboyance. Freeing me maybe to be those things. Fantasize pleasurably about long drives with D – my hand on his thigh – separate but equal thoughts unfolding with the journey. My emotions a difficult horse to ride. 11:50 PM Interrupted by phone call from R. (got this # from my parents.) Offered to send me money. What is wrong with him? He said, “You were right the way you always are. When are you coming back to me?” Loves me, misses me, wants me back. He’s been sick – Emmys a complete bust – his TV show cancelled – 2 directors actually fired (25 people in total.) Today’s the first day he’s been back to work, amazed not to get a pink slip. He’s taking a two week unpaid leave to go to the Finger Lakes and find his soul. If they fire him so what. He really worked me over – gave me a bird’s eye view of what life with him would be like. For example, said, “his place is my place.” If he means “move in” he knows I’ll say no because his skyscraper doesn’t take dogs. He asked, “When do you come down to get your furniture?” I don’t like him having all this information. Thank God for D. Six weeks to decide whether I even want to return to Washington. New York City, 96th off the Park Sat June 25 77 ll PM
Suffered through my sister’s wedding – a day of hideous rain forcing us out from the rooftop garden to huddle in the restaurant. I wore a gray silk backless tuxedo pantsuit - halter-top and bare midriff – Mom did NOT approve. (Looked ravishing if I do say so myself.) Someone asked Dad – about me – “How many of you are redheads? And Dad said, “Hardly any of us.” Bride tells me she chose Brett because he would make a good father. Says she’s coming back pregnant from this honeymoon if it kills them both (they take temp, every morn, etc.) Mom all dewy eyed. I feel like replaying a few “deleted” scenes from Genevieve’s past of which Mom is blissfully unaware but loyally refrain. Retaining my title as Official Bad Daughter. Hey, it’s a pivotal job. NYC 10:45 PM Sun26 June 77 Last night Avril came into my hotel room to stop my wailing and we talked till 2:30 AM. We both agree “fireplug sex” – you stand there while I spray you – is out of the question. She says women who expect nurturing from men are always disappointed because men lack the nurturing gene. Hmm. This is not true of Ryder OR Devon (it was true of Bruce.) If we’re going to talk about “nurturing” we have to face the fact that plenty of mothers seem to lack the gene too – they don’t care what you want or who you are they are just trying to smack you into “shape”. That’s the kind Ryder is. Devon? Remains to be seen but the way he talked about my novel – seeing me inside it – gives me hope. Went to see 3 Women tonight with Best Man (Brett’s brother) on the Doobie Bros principle of “why you in such a hurry to be lonely one more night?” But he is still in college. Immature frat boy. Any relationship speculative at best. There’s Genevieve’s bike to ride when the physical becomes overwhelming on my 3 wk housesit (while they are on their honeymoon & Devon is in Eng) will pass fast. Hearing I was “house-sitting” in NYC parents’ friend at wedding offers me another outside Boston – perfect for seeing Devon whose theological college is nearby. That’s a definite yes. I REALLY miss dancing. Yet creativity heals all. Conquers my fear of ultimate impotence. The act of creation – even if others don’t agree – has a purifying effect. After all, we can’t live in other people’s heads (it’s dangerous to try). Tues. 28 Jun 77 Walk dogs, tend fish & plants, take bike ride, wash hair, see Swedish flick Man on a Roof (like a Lincoln Mercury ad). Bought huge-brimmed red sun hat with single rose in Greenwich Village. Walked HUNDREDS of blocks to NY Pub Lib they won’t let me take anything out. Planning next novel, A Demon Roused. Need to give Jewell some past crime. Infanticide? But under sympathetic circumstances. Or maybe murder of Stephen Ward-like pimp. Bad news at publisher: Harcourt acquires Pyramid and my editor dumped (lunch with her Thurs). Could be good news for me (lunch with new editor tomorrow). Trying not to feel dragged in to dumped editor’ hysteria. Out to dinner at Fiorello’s last night with Brett’s brother, then Altman’s Images (which he knew I wanted to see.) He is trying to figure “a way in”. There is no way in. Images exquisite. Much better than 3 Women. Transitions so elegant they hardly existed. Wish I could do that. Didn’t want to ruin it by talking about it. Very reminiscent of La Prisonniere. My previous all-time favorite. Sent R. my Pevensey Old Farms address so he won’t harass M & D. That’s what I tell myself, anyway. Listening to Vivaldi and reading Haskell’s From Reverence to Rape –anything I can find around here. Genevieve likes novels and I HATE other novelists writing (usually). Lauren changed our Monk’s Inn lunch to dinner. Chuck Kornowitz offered to read Secaire – I invited him to dinner here. Wed 29 June 77 Disappointing meeting with “editor”. I guess dinner went as well as it could on the surface – but Lauren doesn’t like me and wants to wash her hands of me. Damned if I know why. Trying not to take it personally. She is furious at being in “paperback division” (subtext: “throwaways” ) and says my new novel being read by someone else – guy promoted over her who used to edit Westerns. Think she enjoyed my panic at this news. Tried entertaining her with usually reliable Tales of childhood but she was not amused. Probably considered it all bragging. She was very what I expected, mousy bun, tortoise shell earrings, presumably raging hormones. Dinner with me was something she had to “go through” . Work, not fun. Said she has to read two novels a day and prefers memoirs! That’s what she reads for pleasure. I ate snails with lots of garlic and I think she was a bit disgusted. I conjectured you could take out an eyeball with those special snail tongs. Since she was not turned on by the idea I could see she is not the editor for me. Snails were delicious, however. Anyone who loves mushrooms would adore snails. Lunch with ex-editor Ruby a scary experience. She made me meet her at a laundromat where her clothes were in the drier! Went to a Mexican restaurant around the corner, I ordered Sangria. She wore old jeans, ill-fitting shirt, had a price list in hand. Trying to get me to hire her as freelance editor! She showed me her poetry collection (awful: title “Twitterings”. ) Says she has a novel ¼ done. Praised me awkwardly by saying I am “a real writer”. When I tell her I just want to find out what I need to write by patiently building house of cards in my head she tells me people like me are trampled underfoot by the thousand. I need her to make my novels acceptable; her qualifications are that she has been fired by all the big publishers (they are “consolidating”) but she also expresses disgust with them. Needs to work on her presentation. I was horrified. Wanted to be friendly because she bought my book, but when I say why pay someone to rewrite your book in a way you might hate she say there are no guarantees in life. You have to go with whatever “works”. That she is not working seems too rude to point out. I agree the world’s a dark wood but I need to find my way out alone. She drank 3 bullshots, I order coffee frantically afraid I’ll have to drag her and her laundry home. We split the tab both probably thinking the other should have treated (last time out was on Harcourt’s dime). I tried to act like I might be thinking about it but I don’t have a good face for not showing when I am absolutely appalled. Purged my mind at Visconti’s Conversation Piece. Especially reveled the beauty of our modern Dorian Gray Helmut Berger and the “footsteps of death” in apt. overhead. Very Edith Wharton. Dinner at Ms. McManus’ Sutton Place apt. (whose house I will sit next.) She shows off her latest antique acquisitions. |
Alysse Aallyn
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