 Good evening. I got to put my own mic back down here. That's the sound of God. Okay, Dan, thank you. Bill planted this, Bill did this. I want to thank Dan for a great introduction. I appreciate that. Dan wrote one of the best third semester project I think I've ever had in 13 or 14 years of doing MFA programs. So I'd also like to thank Sonya and Bill and all the faculty and Elizabeth especially for putting together another great residency. What I thought I'd do tonight is read from a new novel. There are books in the bookstore. It's their pre-books, pre-arc copies. And just a little bit about the book. I've read a couple of sections from this novel earlier. And it's about a 51-year-old woman in Connecticut who's lost her adult son and she goes on a cross-country journey to find out what happened to him and his death and along the way she runs across what are called discounts or resting places, roadside memorials. I'm going to read the prologue and the first chapter from this novel. It'll be about 25 minutes and I'll be glad to open up to questions and answers. And for my students in the novel workshop tomorrow, please make sure you have some questions. I want you to grill me because I'll be grilling you tomorrow. And this is from the prologue of resting places. The summer of Luke was five. They had gone on vacation to the British Isles. After spending a week touring London, they'd taken the train to Fishguard Whales for a nighttime ferry crossing to Rosslair, Ireland. During the train ride, the three of them had played games like rock, paper, scissors and the find-it game where the first person to spot something passing by in the countryside, a cow, a steeple, one of those red film booths won. They were going to spend another week traveling around Ireland, stopping along the way in Trolley where Lisbeth's father had been born. Her father had passed away a few years before and his death had left Lisbeth with a jagged hole in her heart. Suddenly she felt herself drawn to her roots and she wanted Luke to remember her grandfather. That's Poppy, she explained to her son showing the black-and-white photo in her purse. It was of a tall, good-looking, raven-haired young man in a seersucker suit standing in front of Sean Ogues' pub in Trolley. Lisbeth had always been told she was a spitting image of her father, tall with that dark hair and a broad mouth. He's dead, her son said. Yes, sweetie, Poppy's dead. We were going to see where he was born. He was little like me. At one time, yes. Weary as they got off the train well past midnight, they lugged their suitcases through a cool, oddly bluish drizzle toward a small cafe and gift shop along the wharf to wait boarding. Inside they dropped their bags and Zach leaned in and kissed her. This is going to be fun, he said. Glancing over Zach's shoulder, she asked, where's Luke? He was right here. They hurried back to the train, began searching up and down the aisle of the car they'd been in. Trying to reassure Zach touched her shoulder and with that engineer's pragmatic approach to any problem, he calmly said, don't worry, we'll find him. Of course they would, she told herself. Wasn't this just like Luke to wander off when she turned her head for a moment in the mall, a crowded airport at the beach? Sometimes she thought Luke did it on purpose and only child vying for the attention of his busy professional mother. Luke, Elizabeth called in a fluttery voice, at first mimicking those restrained British tones. But then, as the seconds ticked by, louder, more urgent, they she called, Luke, honey, Luke! When he didn't turn up on the train, they hurried outside, searching among the growing crowd of people assembling for the ferry crossing. As the uneasy seconds spiraled quickly into terrifying minutes, Elizabeth kept telling herself that Luke would show up any second, as he always did. She told herself that everything would return to normal and they'd board the ferry and continue on with their vacation. Wait till I get ahold of that little stinker, she even told herself, trying to make light of the whole thing. But then she happened to catch the expression in the face of her normally unflappable husband. It was a stiff mask of barely withheld dread. That startled her. If Zack was scared, then something must be serious. At that point, there was an announcement over the loudspeaker, telling people they could begin boarding the ferry. This was followed by a sudden surge of damp bodies en masse toward the ramp. Elizabeth and Zack felt themselves being lifted up, as if on a wave and carried along toward the ship. In such chaos, she thought, how could they ever hope to find Luke? Her mind quickly bounded over all the other possibilities and went straight for the worst, the blackest prospect. What if at that moment, their son was being abducted and whisked away? Or what if he had fallen into murky sea, his little body floating face down in the harbor? This line of thinking carried its own inexorable logic. A lawyer used to arranging facts in a line of causation. She began working out the implications of Luke's disappearance. Having described her son to the local authorities, age, height, weight, the color of his eyes, a grayish-blue sort of, what he was wearing, she couldn't remember. The tiny scar beneath his chin he'd gotten from a fall when he was two, her fault as well. Canceling the rest of their vacation, after a certain interim, having to imagine the unimaginable plane ride home, just her and Zack, the empty seat between them, mocking their loss, followed eventually by wondering what she'd do with Luke's things back in Connecticut, his clothes, his toys, his entire bedroom. And finally, picturing the intermodal days that would stretch out in front of her and Zack to the end of time. And all without their little Lukey. One moment there were a happy little family, and the next everything had been ruined. Like that. But suddenly her mood changed from fear to anger. She'd be damned if she was going to let this happen. No, she was Luke's mother and she'd move heaven and earth to find him. She would do anything. Luke, she cried out with renewed vigor, abandoning finally the last messages of restraint or dignity. No caring in the least how absurd she must appear to those around her, this loudmouth hysterical American parent. She left Zack and ran through the crowd, jostling people, shoving her way past, all the while crying out her son's name. Nearly knocking down one man with a cane. What a bloody hell lady. She frantically made her way through the crowded wharf. Finally she stopped, spun around, her eyes darting this way and that, the pulse pounding in her neck. Then, beginning as a frail, almost inaudible whisper, a voice rose in her head. A voice that was both hers and that of a complete stranger. It was something she hadn't done, not in years anyway. Something that wasn't part of her normally pragmatic, rational makeup. Elizabeth was 36 years old, someone who hadn't been to church since she'd gone off to college, who hadn't spoken a word to God once in all that time. Yet she now found herself offering up a plea somewhere within the darkened quarters of her mind. Please God, don't let anything happen to my baby. Seconds passed. Finally, Zack was at her side, his arm around his shoulder. It'll be okay, he said, squeezing her. Later, she wouldn't be able to explain why or how, what made her think of it. But she took Zack's hand and rushed with him toward the cafe. Inside, standing in front of a display of touristy trinkets, was Luke. He was completely mesmerized by some toy he was playing with, twirling the thing back and forth in front of his face. Seeing him alive and whole and unhurt, Elizabeth felt herself finally exhale the breath she had known she'd been holding. The sour feeling of dread passing from her lungs. The entire ordeal lasted perhaps only 10 minutes, but it was the most frightening, most defining 10 minutes of Elizabeth's life. When she saw, when he saw his parents, Luke came rushing up, can I get this mom? He was holding out a small toy in his hand, squatting. Elizabeth grabbed her son roughly by his narrow shoulders and had to fight the urge to shake him silly. Don't ever do that again, she yelled tears spring to her face. You scared mommy. As tears welled up in Luke's eyes as well, she came to her senses and hugged him desperately, fiercely. Squeezing him so hard, he cried out, Mom, jeez, you're hurting. After a while, she saw what it was that Luke held. In his palm set a tiny toy airplane, a die-cast model of a British Spitfire. So small it could fit in the palm of his hand. Taking after his father, Luke had developed an obsession for model airplanes. He loved collecting them, displaying them on a shelf, hanging them by fishing lines from the ceiling. Of course she thought, she bought the thing for him. She'd have bought a thousand toys, anything to show her gratitude. Zach bent down and wrapped his arms around his wife and son. Didn't I tell you it would be alright? Feeling suddenly grateful as if they'd been granted a second chance at happiness. Elizabeth grasped Luke's face and kissed him. I love you, she said. I love you too, but we better get going or we'll miss the boat. They hurried out and boarded the ferry and carried on with their vacation. Elizabeth tried hard to push the near tragedy of that moment from her thoughts. As they turned Ireland with Zach stressing out every time they came to a roundabout. And Luke in the back making zoo-zoo flying noises with his toy airplane. She tried to enjoy herself, tried to forget what might have happened. But she couldn't, not completely, not in Ireland, nor later on the plane ride home, nor in fact in all their subsequent years together. In fact she couldn't hear the word Wales or see that airplane on Luke's shelf back home without it conjuring up that dark memory, that moment of unholy terror of a mother facing the loss of her child. Nor could she avoid the nagging vulnerability that would plague the rest of her days. Knowing as she did that in that blink of an eye everything could change. Like that. Chapter one. Elizabeth had just gotten off the phone and the timid knocks sounded on her office door. She'd hoped to have a little time to collect her thoughts, but before she could answer the door opened to crack and a slight, haggard looking woman, more girl than woman, poked her head in. Her blackened eyes reminded Elizabeth of a raccoon. Pardon the stead, senor Elizabeth. The woman asked Meekly, is time now? One moment of por favor, the woman she said to the woman. The woman withdrew and shut the door. Elizabeth sat there for a moment trying to regulate her breathing, hoping to get herself together enough to deal with someone else's problems. Sometimes she felt like an actor who had to put aside her own life to assume that of the character she was playing. She'd sense a growing annoyance on the part of Sheriff Crowder, the man with whom she'd just gotten off the phone. I told you ma'am, we already sent you all his personal effects, but I'm sure he had it with him. It's not here. Could you just humor me and look again? We don't have it Mrs. Girlacre, the Sheriff said flatly. Did you even, but before she could finish, she cut her off. I have to go ma'am, goodbye. Fuck she cursed, slamming her palm depths down so hard on the flimsy dinette table that it spilled some of the coffee from a cup. This made the fifth or sixth time she called the Marizoso New Mexico Sheriff's Department in the last few months. Not only about the missing diary, but also discuss other things in the police report. Things that didn't make sense that didn't add up. Each time she called, the Sheriff seemed to get more defensive. And each time growing increasingly desperate for answers, Elizabeth had become more pugnacious, allowing her cross-examination behavior to leech into a normally civil demeanor. Finally she got up and went to the door and opened it. Peering out into the hallway of the annex of the small chapel, Elizabeth saw the woman sitting on the floor, her feet curled up Buddha style beneath her. She appeared as anxious looking as an eighth grader waged to speak to a teacher about a bad grade. The last thing Elizabeth had seen her, excuse me, the last time Elizabeth had seen her, nearly a week before, the rawness of her bruised, swollen eyes had taken Elizabeth's breath away. But the swelling had gone down considerably, and now the gaudy yellows and purples look more like some teenager's idea of a makeup statement. Come in, Fabiana, Elizabeth said. The young woman entered and sat down opposite Elizabeth. She was wearing a Mets baseball cap, a flannel shirt that hadn't been washed in a while, and torn loose jeans. She kept both hands over her distended belly, holding like a football player guarding against a fumble in the last minutes of the game. Koma Estah asked Elizabeth, opening her file on the desk, yeah, good? In your eyes, oh, yo, oh, Elizabeth said, touching her own eyes, nodding, the woman replied, better, no hurt. And how is Elizabeth asked, patting her own flat stomach, the baby? See, el baby, bebe es bien, kicking, she said with a smile. For the past few years, Elizabeth had been doing pro bono work at the Mystic Women's Shelter, a couple of afternoons a week and sometimes on Saturdays. The shelter was part of a Catholic retreat on a small island off the coast of eastern Connecticut. The cramped space, Father Paul, the director, provided Elizabeth as a part-time office was actually an all-purpose room, containing the copier, a coffee machine, an apartment-sized refrigerator, a tag sale kitchen set with cracked vinyl seats. It was also where Father Paul, or simply Paul, as he preferred, hung his vestments in the corner. On one wall was a picture of John Lee Hooker, Father Paul's favorite blues guitarist. Well, on the opposite wall was one of Jesus feeding the 5,000. Loaves of bread and fishes appeared to fall from the sky, a downpour food. Elizabeth helped women with legal matters begin divorce proceedings, sued for child support or alimony, or sometimes defended them against crimes like theft or drug possession, or like now, to guide them through the intricacies of filling out a restraining order. Unlike in her law firm, where she worked mostly with affluent middle-class people, her clients at the shelter are mostly poor white or women of color, or like Fabiana, recent immigrants. Fabiana journeyed from Honduras two years earlier, and when she related the complex story of how she got to the U.S., Elizabeth only shake her head and say, Jesus. There were no translators, so Elizabeth had to rely on her rusty high school Spanish and hand gestures to communicate. Elizabeth began helping women fill out the restraining order, which was intended to keep her boyfriend from beating her up again. What that means, Fabiana asked Elizabeth, ex parte. That means we're asking the court for immediate relief from the respondent. KS responded that your boyfriend Jorge. Fabiana stared down at her lap. Elizabeth felt that if not for the fading bruises around her eyes and a depleted look that belied her 19 years, Fabiana would have been pretty. She had lucid acorn-colored eyes, a generous mouth, lustrous skin, the hue of burnished leather, and long, auburn hair she kept in a tight braid down her back. Her fingernails were chipped and dirty from the per diem work Father Paul had arranged for her on a local farm sorting carrots and potatoes. Even from across the table, Elizabeth could smell the sour, sweat, and farm odor of her body. The woman's son Esteban, too, was at that moment playing with a half-dozen other kids in the shelter's nursery. Several doors down. Occasionally, Elizabeth could hear a gleeful cry or wail of disappointment emanating from down the hall. Sometimes, when Elizabeth wasn't busy, she'd go down to the nursery and get down on the floor and play with the kids. Fabiana's Esteban was adorable. I know can see him, the woman asked. Against the brown skin of her neck, Elizabeth spotted a silver crucifix. He know can see you, Elizabeth replied, almost harshly. Quanto tiempo? That will depend on what? On a lot of things, mostly what the court decides in his case. Will he have to go to La Casselle? Prison, Elizabeth knew. Yes, but only if you testify. Test of the car? The woman shook her head vigorously. What do you mean? You have to testify. Look what he did to you. I know want him to go away to La Casselle. Next time it might be worse. You have to think of your unborn child, Sue, baby. She said, patting her own stomach again. Jorge, he's a good man. He just gets un poco loco when he drinks. But you have to press charges and you have to take out this restraining order. We need to make sure he stays away from you. If you don't want to do it for yourself, do it for Esteban. For your baby. Jorge, love Esteban. And he, as padre de Belby, the woman said, pointing at her stomach. He no hurt them. Elizabeth stared at her, but he's capable of that. You must do this Fabiano. Lo siento. I'm sorry. The woman waved her hand in front of her face as if you're brushing away a bad smell. I can't help you if you don't let me, Elizabeth said. Her anger and frustration slipping into her voice. Elizabeth didn't understand such women. Women who were abused, who were used as punching bags for their husbands or boyfriends, frustrations and angers, who still somehow love them. But that wasn't really love, she thought. That was need or fear or guilt or something else entirely, but not love. Love couldn't grow in such unfertil soil. I know, I know Fabiano said tears beginning to run down her bruised cheeks. You so good to me, senor Elizabeth. Lo siento. Despite being annoyed with her, Elizabeth got up and went around the table. She squatted down and put her arms around the woman. Fabiano's sobs convulsed her small body. She clutched onto Elizabeth like a frightened child. It's all right Fabiano, Elizabeth said, rubbing women's back in small circles. She was so skinny, Elizabeth could feel the vertebrae along the woman's spine. As she stroked her, she recalled when Luke was small and crying about something or other, holding him and quieting his seers. It's all right sweetie, everything's all right. At least promise me you'll think about filling out the restraining order. You have at least to do that. See, see the woman said, I think about it. Elizabeth stood, suggesting to the woman it was time to leave. That she had done all she could for her. The rest would be up to her. At the door she turned and said, senor Elizabeth, you are a good woman. Gracious, you think about it Fabiano, Fabiano for both your children. Elizabeth was sitting at the table doing some paperwork. And imagining how sweet that first scotch was going to taste when Father Paul stuck his bald, narrow head in the door. How's Perry Mason today? I guess I'm dating myself with Daddy, said with a boyish grin. You're not that much older than me. When I was a little girl I used to watch the reruns with my father. Ah, the Irishman. As Irish as Patty's Pig she said with a laugh. She told Paul about her father. Though she didn't go to church herself anymore, she'd had Paul say a mass for the man. It was something her father would have appreciated. He loved how Raymond Burr always got the bad guys in the last two minutes she explained. Paul said, virtue always rewarded, sin punished, what a perfect world. Father Paul was thin with a shaved head and a sharp lupine face of a fox. His countenance was softened a bit by sad looking, basset-hound eyes. Eyes were perpetually pink from doing laps without goggles in the over-chlorinated YMCA pool in town. As usual he wasn't wearing a collar but rather a cargo pants. A radial sweater he bought when he was in the Heron Islands on an archeological dig involving the seven ancient churches. Elizabeth and Paul would talk about Ireland, the places Elizabeth's father had gone. A brilliant man, Father Paul possessed a bushel full of advanced degrees and spoke a dozen languages. Unfortunately, we don't always get the bad guys, Paul. She said rolling her eyes conspiratorily at the priest. You mean Fabiana's boyfriend? Uh-huh. She wouldn't sign the restraining order. Now she's not sure she wants to testify against our boy Jorge. She doesn't want him to go to La Carcel. She's a very feeling woman or a very foolish one, Elizabeth said. It's not always a bad thing to turn the other cheek. It is when you know the other cheek is going to get itself smacked. Father Paul came in and sat down across from her. He ran his head, his hand over the top of the shiny bald skull. His shaved head reminded Elizabeth of a newborn soft and vulnerable. You don't know that for sure. I'm willing to bet on it, Elizabeth said. All right. What? He asked, extending his hand across the table. What do you mean what? I'm willing to bet he's learned his lesson. All right. How about a bottle of Scotch? I'm not much of a Scotch man, he said. How about if I lose, I buy you a bottle. But if you lose, you come to work here. Elizabeth let out with a chuckle. Now that seems like a fair deal. I can't match your salary, but you've got this nice plush office with an ocean view, he said grinning. When he grinned, he looked even more like a fox. The first couple of times he'd asked you to come to work here. His tone had almost been playful. And each time he told and each time he treated it as a joke, she thought it was. But recently he told her that the shelter had gotten a large federal grant and that he actually had the money to pay her so far from what she was currently making. Of course, she already had a job, a junior partner in a law firm 20 miles away. She liked Father Paul. He was smart and worldly, well educated with a good sense of humor. And she liked that he wasn't preachy. His faith wasn't Sunday morning spiel, but rather a way of life. He talked like a regular guy about jazz or sports, history or politics, but he let his actions speak for him. He'd set up this island retreat for battered women and their children raising money by the seat of his pants, twisting the arms of donors, cajoling or embarrassing them and often spending his own money on food and toys for the kids. He was a good salesman too, getting people to donate their money or time or expertise to the cause, like Elizabeth. You're so good with women like Fabiana Paul said. Now you're giving me a snow job. What's next? You're gonna try to sell me some indulgences? Then again, I could probably use some. No, you are. You obviously have a gift. The only gift I have is that I'm a lawyer and I don't like some dirtbag who's beating around someone and I don't like that. Fabiana, it's more than that with you. You get satisfaction from working here. It was true though. She did enjoy working with these women seeing that they got at least a semblance of legal representation. Despite the annoyances and frustrations like with Fabiana, she felt that her time and effort here made a difference, sometimes a big one. It was in fact one of the few things which gave meaning to her life lately. She not only provided legal counsel but also helped women get social services, food stamps, daycare. Sometimes she even sat with them and helped them learn to read and write. At the same time, she began to find the work at a law firm increasingly tedious. Wills and divorces, pre-nups and LLCs, defending spoiled little rich kids against DUIs and possession charges. In fact, she'd been spending so much time at the shelter lately, she'd let her regular job slide, so much so that Warren Fuller, had had to call her into his office on a couple of occasions to speak to her. And how are you, Elizabeth? Father Paul asked his expression what she could imagine it to be in the confessional, thoughtful, considerate, patient. She looked across them. She looked across them. Fine, she said. That's your default reply. How are you really? What do you want me to say? Paul sat there for a moment, it takes time, he offered. As in, time heals all wounds? Something like that, he said. He continued staring at her, his pink eyes, slick and painful looking. Elizabeth Stewart started to pack her briefcase. Getting over something like this does take time, Elizabeth. No offense, Father, but how the hell would you know something like this? She said more harshly than she had attended. She was obviously still annoyed by the phone call earlier. When he looked over at her, the effect it had, he looked snubbed. Forgive me, Father, I had no right to say that. No, no, it's all right, besides I have the hide of Rhino, he said with a smile. With this job you have to be thick skinned. And you're right, I can't possibly know what it is to lose a child. But I have suffered loss. You can't be human without suffering loss, Elizabeth. She was going to say, this was different, that there was no loss in the world like this, but she decided to say nothing at all. If you'd ever like to pray with me, Elizabeth, thanks for the offer, but I don't think so. Well, I'll pray for you and your son anyway. Is there anything new in your son's case? I guess nobody but me thinks of it as a case, Elizabeth said, using her fingers to make quotation marks around the word. I don't know if I told you this before, but look at her diary. Really, I think it was with him when he was killed. And you believe that's relevant? It wasn't among his things they sent me later. I've called the sheriff down in Mexico several times asking for it, but he says they never had it. How would that be important? Father asked, who knows. You think he might give you some insight into what he was feeling then? It couldn't hurt, Elizabeth replied. She finished packing your briefcase and snapped it shut. Then she grabbed her umbrella and started for the door. I don't mind my suggestion. Which one, Elizabeth said with a smile? The job, he replied. We couldn't pay you nearly what you're making, but what a view, huh? He said, looking out at the ocean, the day was rainy and blustery, the sound full of angry whitecaps. Only a single lobster boat braved the rough waters. Drive carefully, he said. It's pretty bad out there. As she headed out, she saw Fabiano in the back of the small chapel. The younger woman had lit a candle when she was praying. Elizabeth hadn't been to church since her college days, yet as she watched Fabiano, her head bowed and her eyes tightly shut. Elizabeth found herself longing for such simplicity. She thought her father, Paul, offered to pray with her. She thought too of how fervently her own father used to pray in church. His head bowed, his knuckles white from his tightly folded hands. As well, she thought of that time when she had lost Luke. Of the prayer she had offered to God, she had prayed that time and like some sort of magic trick her son had reappeared. If only it were that easy, she thought. Thank you. I'll be glad to entertain questions. Why is everybody on the left side this time? It's the first question I want. Jenny. I have to remember three questions. Why a woman? Several of my books are my fourth and historical to contemporary. I think I've written, this is my seventh novel and four of them are contemporary. My short stories are contemporary. So I go back and forth and I say this to my writing students that you want to follow your nose, follow your interest, whatever you find interesting. And the third question, the middle one, why a woman? I was going to mention this and I was traveling in New England and I happened to see one of those resting places, one of those crosses, they call them disconsos or resting places or roadside memorials. And I saw one and I saw another and I saw, we all have, and somewhere in the back of my mind I said, Jesus, wouldn't that be an interesting story about these crosses? The first one I actually stopped at was up in New Hampshire and I pulled over, had been by it many, many times. How many people have stopped in New Hampshire? What's wrong with the rest of them? No, and I had never stopped and I stopped and I pulled over. It was a very, a back row but kind of busy and I had to jump over the fence of railing and I went up to and I read and there was all these things that I read on the side of the cross and around the cross and statements and it was a man and a middle-aged man who obviously had children and what I saw was on exit 81 or 82 coming east, coming east on 95. If you go from right before New London there are two crosses on the side of the road and those are the second crosses I stopped at. This was probably four or five years ago and there's a high fence and I had to jump over the fence and I went up to it and it was a boyfriend-girlfriend as far as I could tell who had died at this point and I, yeah. Yes. That's a good point, prologues. I had prologues in several of my books. I'm a prologue kind of guy, I guess. I don't know. They always come later and I know some writers say don't write a prologue because it's sort of adding on. It's a trick to writing a prologue and I don't always have it down but you got to sort of tell something but not tell too much and sometimes looking backwards. And then it sort of sets up what's going to happen in this story. Some prologues I've written happens after the story and looking back on and that one's kind of tricky because you don't want to tell too much. Prologues are things that for me in some novels work well other novels don't work well. I'm sorry? This story? Yeah, I think it could be complete. I remember my first novel and there was a five page journal and that's formed the prologue in a sense but it wasn't. And it was the only part of the entire novel that wasn't from Libby Pelletier's Point of View, it was his first person novel and it was outside of her point of view. Outside of her perspective, outside of her knowledge it was a journal that a German POW in America kept and I remember when it was accepted for publication and I'm usually a pretty flexible if they make a good case, I'll go along with it. They'll just not go too far, right? But in this case I said, no, this needs to stay there. I had to stay there. So sometimes a prologue is necessary other times it's added on. I hope this is necessary. So, yes? Are you talking about prologue? Well, I mean again I think for everybody here I think we're asking this question about this book, prologue is necessary. Well, I don't know. I remember in speaking about audiences and modern audiences Norman Mailer was on Terry Gross one time about ten years ago and the first question was Mr. Mailer, you write such long novels and he said, that's the stupidest question I've ever been asked. And that's not a stupid question. What I'm saying is that he was talking about attention spans you know, most people don't have the attention span to read he said don't read my novels. You raise a good question. I don't know. I think sometimes you have to be careful. You raise a great question. The whole notion of a prologue allows you to have a chapter that is well beyond the novel in terms of time or well before the novel without you having to explain what goes on between the first. You raise a great question. Mr. Mailer you know I think you need to look at the individual novel Prologues to be very good. Sure, sure. Can you guys hear? I don't speak Spanish I help here with Spanish I write a German novel I don't speak German I go to people and my wife is fluent in Spanish so she went over it because my aunt went over it and she got a whole hand First of all I would like to take a class with you to write it out by hand or your books what do you do straight on the computer and how long does that take to be correct? I write on a computer many times but most of the time I use the pen to come here at the residency I'm writing on that computer I take notes I do lots of notes okay he's reaching for my flask hold that can't walk away from the mic okay, oh we're doing this that's right this took me about three and a half years but I did other things I got most of another novel done no, this is a small publisher my other ones have been Harper Collins St. Martin's this is a small press called for sale yes you know, she finds out what was the call process to start it weeks later the prologue and the first chapter going back to your question were written later there was another first chapter that I didn't like in a cut out and started with the prologue in the first chapter and then there's this other longer thing that I've read a couple of times here that was chapter two I think but I've read it a couple of times so I didn't read it other questions yes that's a very good question pacing pacing is crucial with any novel the new novel I'm just about finishing up is set in 1936 another historical novel a guy's a runner Jewish middle distance runner and he goes to compete in the Olympics in 1936 and how much do you tell and when you tell his back star which is crucial to his story when do you get that across you know I normally tell students who are writing and using back story slow down on the back story when we as writers we want to get it all out we want to get all the stuff out and if we front end a lot of front load a lot of the information it slows it down I tell my students get the story going and what I tried to do here both in the prologue is to give you some context with that short three or four page prologue and then jump into where she is now and the jump between the two things her child was momentarily dead then resurrected and then as the first chapter implies he's dead again by something and then hopefully that will pull you into the story and then the back story of what happened is interwoven with her story forward and she goes on a cross-country trip to find it so pacing is very important louder? to what? right I've been to Galway and Dingle many many times and one of my books a couple of chapters Garden Martyrs a couple of chapters is set there so you draw on that and maybe some of you notice that that island sounds a little bit like the the island I stole this yes well she's a woman who's lost a child and I gave a lecture some time ago about the importance of the empathetic imagination we can't experience everything that we write about but we have to write about it anyway and so we have to use our empathetic so I tried to pick I mean knock on wood that I haven't lost a child but I have had brothers who've lost child we know friends who've lost child children and so on and so forth so Elizabeth is going through a very tough time and she has lost a child she's a stranger from her husband and she's got all these questions about his death her son's death there's a lot of open questions so there's a part mystery to this story and she's calling the sheriff because it was a clear day he wasn't drunk there was no alcohol involved there was some other things and she's questioning what happened and so what she does and I'll sort of jump ahead and this is not a spoiler alert but I'll jump ahead she goes across country going to the places he stopped and she follows his charge card and she follows his phone calls and she follows where he went to try to find answers the answers she gets are not the answers she thought she was going to get it was this it was that it was the other thing so she learns some things that aren't about the case she learns stuff about herself and about her child some hopefully remarkable stuff that aren't about the mystery of his death which is part of what sets her off other questions? yes well I think as writers if we don't write about painful stuff we're not doing a job that's as simple and depending on how painful we want it to be I think there's more than just pain in this novel but to your other question about the research I did grow across I did drive cross country and I took hundreds of pictures of crosses all the way and as you go south and southwest you see more and more of these things they're everywhere you can't go a mile without seeing a discount so it's a resting place and I read books about it and I have about maybe 200 pictures and I originally thought of doing this as a nonfiction piece because every place you stop there's a story I'll just tell you one story that I stopped with my friend he's a novelist too we went across country and we stopped and we saw these two crosses and I used it in the book we saw these two crosses I have a picture of it there's a big cross and a little cross and most of the crosses that you come across have a first name, last name and date and a date of birth and date of death and sometimes we'll have other things like REP or love mother and father so I looked at these two crosses we looked at these two crosses in Arkansas and there was a name on the bigger cross full name and then on the little cross there was just a first name and then the big cross there was a birth date and a death date about 21 years old as I recall and on the little cross there was only a death date so we're looking at it and we're saying what the heck is that what's going on and suddenly a light up went off and a man's head a woman would get this right away right she was pregnant when she hit this tree and died right here and her child had never been born but she was named and I said my goodness what a story this is now is that morbid I don't know it was touching to me and for Elizabeth who uses this it's where when you do research you go out and you find stuff and you can use it for your novel and this I said I gotta put this in and it was hopefully something that illuminated Elizabeth's own life when she saw these two crosses and she saw a lot and I did too saw lots of crosses with lots of stories and originally I wanted to tell I thought about telling us this nonfiction in fact a mutual friend of ours Suzanne Strempik Shea I went to her when I originally came up with this idea and I said a friend who's a novelist and a nonfiction writer and I said hey I get this great idea do you want it and I told her about it it's a great idea but it's yours and I'm not a nonfiction writer so I told it as a novel other questions the question of empathetic imagination we all have to have it if you're a novelist or a poet or a nonfiction writer you have to have it you have to write about other people's lives you can't just write about your own life especially for a novelist you have to write about many other people's lives okay I'm a white male of a certain age and certain socioeconomic and whatever if I can only write about what I know it's very limiting and very boring it's not only going to make my make he's already bored it's not only going to make my writing boring but it's going to bore my readers and so every character you write about is not going to be yourself most of them are not going to be yourself so you have to get into the characters and that's your question and I said one thing is to do your research okay when I did this when I wrote this book number one I read several books on roadside memorials people that went to them I looked at blogs that had roadside memorials there's a whole you know subculture of roadside memorials across the country and now I read books but then I started to stop at them and then I went across the country and I looked at one after the other took pictures I got out and I knew this it's kind of weird and morbid I thought but after I thought you know this is people telling their stories of their dead loved ones fathers brothers children and they want to put something up there and what they felt and what I heard is that one of my characters said what about a cemetery you know and another character says cemeteries are cold and distant these things are right there and these things are where your loved ones are 101 times you'd stop and you'd say this would be like what it would feel like okay and at one point Elizabeth in his story gets out of the car climbs a fence in her business suit rips her stocking bloodies her leg climbs down the other side to these two crosses side by side and she picks up the stuff and then she lies there and she tries to imagine what it was like to be there when this young couple crashed and then the parents at one point saying we got to do this most parents don't do it most loved ones don't do this otherwise the peak crosses everywhere and she said what would make a parent go down to the basement saw the boards nail them together paint them bring them out have some kind of ceremony how would you do that and what would it mean so I think you do your research and then you try to put yourself really there and say what would it be like okay other questions yes yes I mean if you're a novelist you've got to be always on the lookout for stories you could ask any novelist here any person writing a novel here you have to be on the lookout for stories you know and you've got to I have like 20 story ideas on my computer with anywhere from two pages to 30 or 40 pages written about stories most of those I won't live long enough to write okay I'm not going to die with me but we are filled with wanting to tell stories I am as a novelist I'm constantly looking for stories and I tell my undergraduates and I tell my graduate students you have to train your mind to think of not just oh that'd be an interesting story but how could I shape it how could I form it what could I do and when you get an interesting story don't let it just come in one ear or not the other you've got to sit down and jot it down and you may say 90% of the time nothing will come of that but that 1% or 5% or 10% like resting places or soul catcher it'll develop yes yes are you talking about writer's block or are you talking about well number one I've never had writer's block okay and what I mean I've written badly I have I have I've struggled sometimes some days go by and I've only cut things some days go by and I've added nothing some days go by but I sit my butt in this chair for four or five hours or three hours and I get something done I go back and review pages okay so I do come many times I mean more ideas have come to me than I've actually finished as far as novels this is my eighth book I just finished up my ninth book there are numerous ones that are sitting somewhere in a hyperspace or or in a burn their ashes now or something ideas ideas for novels are you saying ideas for novels are you saying where does an idea for novel come from okay lots of places some from other books beautiful assassin came from I came down the stairs in my house in Guilford and I had the history channel on and they said something about a female sniper in Russia who killed 306 Germans I said what run that by me again and it was like 30 seconds on the end of a sniper special on history channel I said wow I didn't know that another I'll just say to another I the first novel came I was up in Maine fishing fly fishing with a couple of friends and I was looking at a topo map and I flipped it over on the back there was a mention not very well known and on Moosehead Lake there was a German POW camp you know Americans ran it and had German POW prisoners and I said that I found that very fascinating this one I said I came up with it by stopping at this one roadside memorial in New Hampshire on I think it's route 7 it cuts across New Hampshire Vermont so yes we're almost coming yes yeah a bicycle huh I didn't know that no I've never come across a bicycle I've come across lots of different things I've come across and I could maybe once I could I have like about 100 photos they still have on my on my hard drive that I could send to you but I remember there were lots of different kinds of things you know there was a like a biker guy that got killed somewhere in the mountains in Mexico where this novel ends by the way and there were a bunch of beer bottles his buddies had left for him and I thought well this is just what he needed more of this but that's what they remembered him and there was where there was this picture of this beautiful woman a Latina woman who had died a picture was laminated and there was a guitar and stuff teddy bears I mean they just put everything there and I looked up her name okay and the irony of this story was when I looked it up she caused the death of six other people by crashing into them and I said there's a story there's an interesting story so maybe one more two more okay yeah I'll be frank I'm an atheist I'm a searching atheist many of my novels are one two of my novels are about priests this is a very spiritual novel I believe deeply in spirituality I'm an atheist so I have a hard job believing the kind of formal traditional kinds of things Elizabeth is very is closer to me in this as a character in this okay I wish you could grab me and pull me along but she had to be pulled along in this direction that she's fighting and kicking against because she's much more rational her husband by the way is a Catholic and a believer and that's the way he handles the death of their child she doesn't she handles it by drinking and throwing herself into this work that I read from the first chapter one more question we'll finish up thank you very much