Writers Inspiration

On Saturday night, courtesy of Aliza Murrietta, whose husband was out of town at the Second City 50th Reunion, I got to go see Carlos Fuente speak. I almost didn't go. I said no, because it was the second night of Hannukah, and Jonathan's mother was visiting, but then I told Jonathan and he said, "Oh, you must go!"

Fuentes taught Jonathan at Harvard and somewhere in our house is a box of signed books from the great man. He is great, Jonathan told me. Then he began to imitate his former professor. (Something about a great negress's giant wet vagina)

We drove over. It was a dramatic night--very Mexican. There were sheets of rain, rivers of water running down the boulevards, and in Beverly Hills all the street lights and traffic lights were out. The city was dark. We arrived at Royce Hall at UCLA soggy and exhilarated.

The great man spoke. I bought some books. We listened. He gave a lecture. It was A-Z, This I Believe. It was OK. I was drowsy at first, after the adrenaline of the ride over, a belly full of latkes and apple sauce, and sitting in a big warm hall in the dark. I would awaken at certain letters and they would drill into my consciousness, beautiful images, incredible language. (J is for jealousy, O is for Odyssey, M is for Mexico, A is for Amor, L is for the Left) Others were more bland, or drifted by.

Then he answered questions, and here he was brilliant: quick-witted, hilarious, warm, witty, sharp, alive. He answered questions political, personal and literary and made us laugh and think deeply. Being in the presence of a mind like that is exhilarating, inspiring.

At the end someone asked about dreaming, and the writing process, and this is what he said:

At the end of each day, around nine or ten at night, I sit down to write. I jot down the plot points of what I will write th next morning, Important events, conversational turns, things various characters say, surprises and challenges that will arrive--maybe thirteen or fourteen in all. Then I go to sleep. I dream. I awake in the morning and the story is there. It is not usually what I have written down the night before. My subconscious has been at work, and tells me what to write. It is as if, during the night, I have been visited by a second me, who takes over from the first me, and then feeds the first me what to write in the morning.

This is a paraphrase. But it captures the magic of what can happen.

I think I am going to try.