| Feb. 3, 2003
After a brutal series of planes and buses—30
hours door to door—I arrived in Mojacar, a village consisting
of square, white buildings on an arid hillside facing the Mediterranean,
which is a gauzy blue a shade or two darker than the sky.
Fundacion Valparaiso, founded by a Dutch
sculptor and painter named Paul Beckett who inherited a lot of money,
is a many-chambered, toffee-coloured villa overlooking a dry riverbed
and some cultivated fields that was built on an old olive farm.
In an airy room, the only original structure in the villa, there
is a huge olive press, like a huge corkscrew. The walls are covered
with Beckett’s watercolours and the art of its past residents—colourful,
sunny, and eclectic. I am here with five visual artists from the
US, the UK, and Korea. I have a room with my own bathroom, desk,
and a terrace.
Last night, before I arrived, the Danish
ambassador was over for dinner. In honour of his arrival, the kitchen
staff flipped over the scuffed placemats so the less scuffed undersides
were showing. Just as you would a couch cushion with a cigarette
burn
February 4th, 2003
I’m writing on my laptop at night with candlelight—just
like the olden days. Re-working Abandoned Novel #1 for lack of anything
better to do.
February 5th, 2003
Awake early, ate some leftover dinner, plus cereal, drinking peppermint
tea and trying to work.
On the bookshelves, I picked up someone’s copy of Brian Moore’s
I Am Mary Dunn is very good. The scenes are lively, the
prose is elegant, the observations meticulous. Yet in writing in
a woman’s voice, Moore seems to have over-empathized, stitching
together the whiniest sides of Molly Bloom and Ibsen’s Nora
into a character and a novel. Even the title has an embarrassing,
“hear me roar” element of therapeutic self-actualization.
Starting work on something new. A short fiction:
He was not only smart, but self-aware; not only self-aware, but
self-deprecating. “I’m very smart,” he said. “So
smart that I get bored easily and need constant stimulation. I’m
smart like a border collie.”
February 6th, 2003
It was as bright as usual in Mojacar, but more temperate, the wind
of the last two days having dissipated. Deciding to see Mojacar
pueblo, I avoided the long round-about paved road across the base
of the hill and into the far edge town. Instead, I took a steep,
dumb-assed route through scrub and loose rock. It turned out, if
I wanted a shortcut, there was a much easier criss-crossing trail
that George, the culture-jamming graffiti artist, was kind enough
to show me.
When I got back, Ilah, a still-life painter from Berkeley who was
raised a Buddhist and went to high-school with Rebecca Romijn-Stamos,
noticed the hives running along my arms. I’ve had hives come
and go since December. It wasn’t caused by an allergies; it
was usually brought on by stress, exertion, and cold. Neither antihistamines
or cortisone helped. I blame it on my second novel—I’m
allergic to it.
Excused myself, then went to bed early, woke up at midnight, and
am now hoping to work again.
February 7th, 2003
Continued working, early this afternoon (or as it’s called
in Spain, the morning) on new story, up to page 10, maybe another
five to eight more pages to go. Didn’t sleep much tonight
once again.
I learned a new word from Jim, a painter and professor from Detroit
who was now semi-retired in Trepassee, Newfoundland: “Svetka-herring.”
White fish. Said to someone who looks pale.
Will work soon on Abandoned Novel #1.
February 8th, 2003
Writing some good stuff for new story, now entitled “Snowfall
in Reno.” Also, am happy with the rewrites for Abandoned Novel
#1, though I’m not sure they will add up to anything.
Finished Enduring Love and, though my reservations about the reductive,
circumscribed nature of his prose (cf. Michael Chabon) as well as
the highly schematic, fetishistically perverse nature of his storytelling
stand, I was still impressed that McEwan went for the outlandish,
Fatal Attraction ending. It’s easily my favourite of the three
books of his I’ve read.
Am sleeping bizarro hours. 6 to 8 AM. 3 to 7 PM. 10 PM to 12 AM.
There was mail in my slot by the office, from someone named “The
Phantom” (probably Jim, who has a baroque sense of humour):
“Dear Kevin: In your writing do you have certain expectations
that seek or crave propriety—like novels that want to be together?
Yours ever, The Phantom (or the Guest who walks).”
February 9th, 2003
Exhausted from the long walk to and along the beach and back. Hoon,
the sweet Korean artist and professor who specialized in digitally
manipulated photos of friends, and I ended up at an Internet cafe
with coin-operated computer terminals along one wall and slot machines
on the other. We drank beer and watched 1980s-era music videos on
the TV. Dogs—mostly whippets—were running in a packs
along the base of the hills.
In his very limited English, Hoon told me he listened to Rod Stewart
in middle-school; I told him Bryan Adams was from Vancouver. It
was nice having a beer and chatting with Hoon about his family,
his art, Manhattan (we both went to grad school there around the
same time).
My second nap was very long. Didn’t start work until 2:30
AM.
February 10th, 2003
Went to town today. I am finding, very irksome, the local custom
for shops and cafes here to post their hours of business and then
completely disregard them. Got loaded on weak table wine so that
I could sleep from 10 PM to 1 AM. Wrote until 4:30, then was too
tired to sleep except for twenty minutes.
Picked up and dropped, quickly, The
Tin Drum and Revolutionary
Road. Read a Jhumpa Lahiri story called “Sexy”
in an old NYer. Nicely written, but the story was shamelessly, gaudily
schematic. Based on the two stories I’ve read of hers, I can’t
decide whether she’s a moralist or moralizer.
Finished “Snowfall in Reno” and wrote six pages of Abandoned
Novel #1. Feeling foolishly confident about Abandoned Novel #1.
February 11, 2003
Dearest diary: Sorry for not writing yesterday!!! Please accept
this backdated entry as a token of my contrition. I spent most of
the day awake, but trying to nap. The Spanish expression for sleeping
is "talking to the pillow"; the pillow and I aren't speaking.
Read a third of Richard Yates' Revolutionary Road. It’s
nicely written but I can’t help but shake the feeling that
it’s smarmy in tone.
Was hoping to get hammered at lunch so that I could doze through
the afternoon, but there was no wine. Got hammered, instead, at
dinner. Slept soundly from midnight to five and wrote my page quota
(seven: including two written that day). Am feeling on a roll with
Abandoned Novel #1 and don’t want to make the same mistake
as with Abandoned Novel #2 of writing 10 pages a day, because of
the quality drop. It takes a page or two to warm up, then there
are maybe three or four good pages, then you’re writing for
the sake of writing, which is rarely a good idea. Even writing seven
pages is a little too much for a day. Five strong pages should be
a good day, but I feel like I should maximize my Spain-time.
February 12, 2003
Walked down to the beach and checked my email. It’s odd not
to have regular access to e-mail and online newspapers: such a big
chunk of my day is now free. After two restless days, I slept well,
between 4 to 8 PM and 10 PM to 3:30 AM. Work went well, I think.
Here I must add--there never seems a good time--that Spanish bathrooms
have ashtrays located above the toilet-paper tray.
February 13, 2003
Finished reading Revolutionary Road (finally).
February 14th, 2003
Woke up at 7 AM and wrote until 10:30. Hope this can be my new schedule.
Had a strange fever once I returned back from the beach. First I
noticed a lot of hives along my person, then I got into bed, pulled
all the sheets over me and still was shivering. I got a little better
in time for dinner, but still had annoyingly feverish dreams. Looked
very sideshow. Did the Elephant Man have an unfinished novel, too?
February 16th, 2003
Woke up at 7:20 AM, after getting nine hours of only mildly interrupted
sleep. The fever had passed.
Went to town. On my way down the hillside to the Fundacion, I had
a nice halting conversation with a goat-herder named Jose using
a bit of French and my very bad Spanish phrasebook. Jose lived in
the village, had two children, and has been in Mojacar all his life.
When I asked whether he lived with his wife, he looked very sad.
I felt sorry for bringing it up. His hip started acting up on him
and we bade each other farewell. Spaniards in Mojacar have been
exceedingly friendly.
There was no water past the afternoon, though by evenings the toilets
were working again (whew).
February 17th, 2003
Feeling grimy without a shower. Worked until the afternoon. Rocio—the
feisty Cuban-American painter from Atlanta who had a Southern twang
in her voice, and also went to high-school with Kim Basinger—bless
her, rented a car at only $168, all included, for the week; strange
how cheap it is to rent a car versus filling the tank.
As we visited a couple of Moorish outposts (one restored, one not)
with amazing views of the Mediterranean, I was thinking of Neil
Young. At a concert in the 1970s, he introduced “Cowgirl In
the Sand” with: “I wrote this about the beaches of Spain.
I’ve never been to the beaches in Spain.” As you may
have guessed, Young had a good time in the 1970s. Driving along
the coast, the colour of the hills changed, from the brown, to a
broccoli colour, to an almost red, and I thought then, that this
was what a “ruby in the dust” must look like. The line
in the song goes: “hello ruby in the dust, has your band begun
to rust?”
When I got home, just before I had continued writing (only 7 pages)
and discovered I had broken the glasses in my jacket pocket. Subsequent,
valiant attempts by Jim to super-glue it together failed. A lifetime
of neglecting my personal possessions has caught up with me!
February 18th, 2003
Wrote 10 pages of Abandoned Novel #1. No longer concerned about
writing too many pages; just want to get the damned thing done.
Went to town today, checked email, went to hardware store, bought
more glue and at least managed to badly glue together spec halves.
They now sit lopsided on my face.
Ilah wants to go to Almeria tomorrow or the day after. It’ll
be game-time decision.
February 19th, 2003
Another 10 pages of Abandoned Novel #1. Feeling burn-out, a quality
drop, excessive use of dialogue. Will not write 10 pages a day again;
only nine. Stayed in today, reglued glasses, read a nice Julie Hecht
story. Rained again tonight.
February 20th, 2003
Beautiful, toasty day yesterday. Canceled Almeria. Wrote 14 pages—way
too much. After dinner tonight was a show-and-tell of residents’
work and work-in-progress. I was yawning by the end, because it
was 11:30. I can’t believe it. I’m normally a late-night
person, but now that I’m in a late-night nation, I choke—choke!
February 21st, 2003
Don’t remember what happened today. Probably wrote. A lot.
I think it was 12 pages.
February 22nd, 2003
Wrote 13 pages of Abandoned Novel #1. At p. 215. Now in the home
stretch, the last chapter and a half. Must not rush. Half the time
I marvel at the inventiveness of the plot; the other half, I think
it’s ludicrous.
In the afternoon, we went to the bullfights in a bull ring with
gray concrete ledges for seats. Bullfighters in very gay outfits.
There was some prancing of horses to begin the show, then came six
different bulls. The bulls were very beautiful animals, and they
had cute names, like “The Student” and “The One
Who Likes Sweets.” Not so cute when they were killed. The
various bullfighters and Spanish rodeo clowns pranced around them
waving capes, stabbing poncy striped lawn darts into their backs.
A guy on horseback, a picador, speared them, too, so their backs
were spurting blood. Finally it’s the bull and matador, the
crowd yelling ole after each charge of the bull, the band playing
marching music. When the matador is skilled he is able to kill the
bull cleanly with one thrust of his sword between the bull’s
shoulders and into his heart. It was sad to me to watch the animal
stagger around before it topples over. After a good match, the crowd
waves white hankies to signal to the president (of what? I don’t
know) to award the fighter the bull’s ears.
Afterwards, we ended up at the Mexican restaurant in Mojacar pueblo.
We played pool, did shots of tequila, ate jalapeno poppers. I was
pretty drunk when I got home, though not as drunk as Hoon.
February 23rd, 2003
Hoon just left, super-hungover, to teach in Seoul. It was quite
sad to see him go; oddly sad since we’re all leaving in five
more days.
Wrote 15 pages of Abandoned Novel #1 today. Am now at p. 230. One,
maybe two more days of second draft to go before revisions.
February 24th, 2003
Finished 2nd draft of Abandoned Novel #1. I feel more triumphant
than I did after the first draft, but still realize the work that
needs to be done, the big gaps in continuity, narrative, and common
sense that still exist.
Spent the rest of the day wired from writing and maybe the peppermint
tea.
February 25th, 2003
Very humiliating. Started a fire by placing my wet corduroys and
three t-shirts on the heater. Went down to the kitchen area to make
tea and read old New Yorkers when Marie-Laure, who works in the
office, walked in with the housekeepers and asked me whether I smelled
something burning. It took me a second. I ran upstairs to find my
room filled with gray-white smoke and my clothes on fire. Marie-Laure
opened the terrace window (not a good idea because it allows air
in that feeds the fire) and stamped out the burning rags. The fire
cracked the window above the radiator and melted some of the radiator;
that, I hope, is the extent of my damage. Lost my clothes and melted
the cord and power-bar of my cheap-o laptop. My laptop keyboard
and monitor were covered by a gritty powder from either the burnt
clothes or the fire extinguisher. There’s still some powder
left under the keys that makes typing a little difficult.
Marie-Laure and later, Pilar, the Fundacion director, were very
kind and sweet. “Accidents happen,” Pilar said. “We’re
insured.” At lunch, Rocio asked me whether the fire would
find its way into my fiction. “May. Be,” I replied.
In that event, I am to give Rocio’s character long legs.
February 26th, 2003
No fire; nice day. Was moved in the afternoon to a room in the courtyard.
Read half of an Ann Beattie collection, Where
You’ll Find Me—blah. Started tentative revision
of the 2nd draft, just got 4 pages into it. I love how it feels
to revise once you have a completed, workable draft in place: at
this point each sentence can judged by how well it serves the whole.
At dinner Pilar said that, with my blaze and George being stuck
in the centuries-old cistern at the top of Mojacar Vieja (he finally
climbed up a pile of rocks he gathered), she would miss us. “I
have an ache in my soul,” she said.
February 27th, 2003
Last day here was beautiful and warm.
Wasn't it Maxim Gorky who wrote "I have a toothache in my soul"
in a letter before an attempted suicide?
February 28th, 2003
Slept poorly. Pilar swept in five minutes before Ilah’s and
my bus was to leave. Pilar has the peculiar Spanish talent of being
inefficiently efficient; we made the bus with seconds to spare.
It was nice that our farewell was not protracted. Jim’s beard
was scratchy when he Italian-kissed me. It had been a wonderful
time.
“Packing is easier leaving than going,” I told Ilah
on the bus. “When you leave, you simply take with you everything
that looks familiar.”
UPDATE: Before returning home, I spent
another week in Spain, then a week in the UK, which suffered poorly
in comparison to Spain.
The hives went away, eventually. Abandoned
Novel #1 was completed, but is in publishing limbo. I bought new,
much better glasses and slightly less comfortable corduroys.
Kevin Chong is the author of Baroque-A-Nova
and a regular Bookninja contributor.
(discuss) |
