we’ve been there that I’m not even sure it’s still in business. We head south on Thompson, though, and continue on West Broadway. Usually walking through Soho annoys Jack. He can remember when the area was abandoned warehouses and a few health food stores. Now it’s overpriced clothing stores and trendy galleries geared toward a tourist mentality. I expect him to rant about the various gallery owners and artists who have “sold out,” but instead he asks me about the story that
Caffeine
is going to publish.
“It’s an essay really, a memoir about my mother.”
“Memoir?” he says suspiciously. “Since when do you write memoirs?”
“Well, it’s not a memoir about me.” I know Jack’s opinion about the spate of self-absorbed memoirs to hit the bookstores in recent years. “It’s really a retelling of a fairy tale that my mother—and then Aunt Sophie—used to tell me. I asked my students to write about a favorite fairy tale and so I did too. You know, as a model.”
“Well, I’m glad something useful came out of those classes you teach.” Another of Jack’s saws: any time not spent doing your art is wasted time. Teaching is a necessary evil. I used to tell Jack that I actually liked teaching, but I gave up, not so much because he didn’t believe me as that the more I tried to convince him the less I believed it myself. “I just hope you’re not going the memoir route because it’s commercial.”
“I didn’t write it because memoirs are commercial,” I tell Jack. We’ve come to Mezzaluna, but we pause outside the restaurant while Jack waits for me to presumably tell him why I did write it. Because obviously he’s not buying the idea that I wrote it for my students. That would be like him doing a painting to match a client’s decor. And suddenly I’m not sure how I did come to write “The Selkie’s Daughter”—did I write it to model an assignment or did the assignment come after?
“I’ve been thinking about my mother a lot lately,” I say, “the way she told those fairy tales and then the fairy tales became part of her novels. I was wondering if I went back to her books and looked at all the fairy tales she used if I could figure out what would have come next. I mean, why she didn’t finish the third book in her trilogy. Maybe there was something about that third book that made it too hard for her to write—the way John Steinbeck stopped writing the King Arthur stories when he got to the part where Lancelot and Guinevere kiss.”
“So you think if you figure out her writer’s block you’ll break your own?”
It’s the closest he’s come to being mean tonight, but when I look at his face I see that he really didn’t intend to hurt me. Jack can be brutally honest, but only because he thinks it’ll help in the long run. Still, he must see the tears in my eyes because as he escorts me into Mezzaluna he whispers into my ear, “Maybe you’re right. It’s already worked hasn’t it? After all, you’re writing again.”
I turn to him, but the maître d’ is approaching us with two menus in his hand and Jack is smiling and greeting him by name. By the time we’re seated and Jack has ordered a bottle of wine, I think I’ll change the conversation. Ask him about how his paintings for the faculty show at The Art School are coming. But Jack still wants to talk about my work.
“I mean it. You look different. I can always tell when you’re working. You get a certain glow.”
I blush. The truth is that I haven’t written anything since I wrote “The Selkie’s Daughter”—I’ve had all those fairy-tale papers to grade—but I do something that I’ve never done with Jack before. I lie. “Yes,” I tell him, “I have been writing. Something new. I think it’s going well.”
“That’s great, Iris. To tell you the truth I was a little worried, but I didn’t want to say anything.”
I smile and pick up my menu. When Jack and I first met I thought it was wonderful
Caffeine
is going to publish.
“It’s an essay really, a memoir about my mother.”
“Memoir?” he says suspiciously. “Since when do you write memoirs?”
“Well, it’s not a memoir about me.” I know Jack’s opinion about the spate of self-absorbed memoirs to hit the bookstores in recent years. “It’s really a retelling of a fairy tale that my mother—and then Aunt Sophie—used to tell me. I asked my students to write about a favorite fairy tale and so I did too. You know, as a model.”
“Well, I’m glad something useful came out of those classes you teach.” Another of Jack’s saws: any time not spent doing your art is wasted time. Teaching is a necessary evil. I used to tell Jack that I actually liked teaching, but I gave up, not so much because he didn’t believe me as that the more I tried to convince him the less I believed it myself. “I just hope you’re not going the memoir route because it’s commercial.”
“I didn’t write it because memoirs are commercial,” I tell Jack. We’ve come to Mezzaluna, but we pause outside the restaurant while Jack waits for me to presumably tell him why I did write it. Because obviously he’s not buying the idea that I wrote it for my students. That would be like him doing a painting to match a client’s decor. And suddenly I’m not sure how I did come to write “The Selkie’s Daughter”—did I write it to model an assignment or did the assignment come after?
“I’ve been thinking about my mother a lot lately,” I say, “the way she told those fairy tales and then the fairy tales became part of her novels. I was wondering if I went back to her books and looked at all the fairy tales she used if I could figure out what would have come next. I mean, why she didn’t finish the third book in her trilogy. Maybe there was something about that third book that made it too hard for her to write—the way John Steinbeck stopped writing the King Arthur stories when he got to the part where Lancelot and Guinevere kiss.”
“So you think if you figure out her writer’s block you’ll break your own?”
It’s the closest he’s come to being mean tonight, but when I look at his face I see that he really didn’t intend to hurt me. Jack can be brutally honest, but only because he thinks it’ll help in the long run. Still, he must see the tears in my eyes because as he escorts me into Mezzaluna he whispers into my ear, “Maybe you’re right. It’s already worked hasn’t it? After all, you’re writing again.”
I turn to him, but the maître d’ is approaching us with two menus in his hand and Jack is smiling and greeting him by name. By the time we’re seated and Jack has ordered a bottle of wine, I think I’ll change the conversation. Ask him about how his paintings for the faculty show at The Art School are coming. But Jack still wants to talk about my work.
“I mean it. You look different. I can always tell when you’re working. You get a certain glow.”
I blush. The truth is that I haven’t written anything since I wrote “The Selkie’s Daughter”—I’ve had all those fairy-tale papers to grade—but I do something that I’ve never done with Jack before. I lie. “Yes,” I tell him, “I have been writing. Something new. I think it’s going well.”
“That’s great, Iris. To tell you the truth I was a little worried, but I didn’t want to say anything.”
I smile and pick up my menu. When Jack and I first met I thought it was wonderful
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