Author Archives: thaisafrank

Four About My Mother

I. My Mother’s Face

When I was three, old enough to understand, my mother tried to strangle me. It was late afternoon, the time of raw nerves, hard for her in the middle of Kansas. I was in my crib, crying. From the ceiling of my bedroom, I saw a confusion of her face and my face, her eyes and my eyes. Her hand twisted my head, pressed her thumb against my throat and pushed my chin into my neck. My doll caved against my ribs, an ally of sorts, with hard, plastic fingers.

Bits of air, meant for me, fanned around my mother’s face. Her eyes in slanted glasses were dark and fierce and electric. Maybe I made a deep appeal, asking her to let me live. Or maybe we met in a  mysterious harmony. In any case, her hands loosened.

Later my father walked me around the living room. He wanted to see if I could move my neck. I could.

As a child, I often felt I’d swallowed a bubble of air that kept me from breathing. I felt it at the movies, or on long walks through Kansas fields. I also remembered my mother’s face, the way I’d seen it above my crib. For an instant her face became my face, her eyes my eyes. And then she had separated out, become miraculously herself.  In a world without air, she was vital and alive.  I’ve never seen another person more clearly.

II. My Face

Winters were bleak in the Midwest. There were days when the furniture lost its edges in late afternoon, and the world was dark by five. Then, until the lamps could do their work, everything was blurred, and my mother sat often sat in the living room staring into space. She said she didn’t like winter because it was confining.

“What is confining?” I asked.

“Too small. The kind of small that makes you nervous.”

Since I was small and made her nervous, I decided that I was confining, too. I sat on the far side of the dark room watching her vacant, darting eyes. She seemed to look forward to places she’d never reach, and back to places she’d never seen.
Outside, the old French peasant who kept chickens in the heart of suburban Illinois came out to gather five o’clock eggs. Her kerchiefed head bobbing up and down, while her chickens flocked around her. I was never sure whether she found any  eggs, or was performing some act of obeisance, as she bent down. With something, or maybe nothing, in her basket, she hobbled back to the house.

The alley looked beyond the peasant’s house and other houses to a long avenue where  I saw men coming back from work– a promenade of hats and newspapers. I watched them, hoping to one of them was my father. But my mother looked somewhere beyond the window–to an opera house, where women in tiered gowns fanned themselves, or a London street where Pears soap was in shop windows. I knew nothing about history yet understood her favorite century wasn’t this one: She wore rhinestone earrings that looked like chandeliers and hand mirrors that she said were Victorian.
Sometimes my mother slipped into evening without a trace. Then the walls and faded green couch gathered her up.  When my father came home, he always seemed bewildered. And though she was just about to come back—or hadn’t left at all–padded around the kitchen opening cans of soup, ferreting out boxes of stale crackers.
“Would you like some soup, Marlie dear?”
“A little bouillon?”
“Maybe later.”
My father’s voice was tense and cheerful–an affront to my mother’s grief. If we’d had a fireplace, he would have sat the two of us in front of it with soup and looked at the flames and pretended she was happy. Instead the two of us sat in the small kitchen, painfully aware of my mother on the couch.
Sometimes it seemed to me that the present night, where the moon rose over the chicken coop and my father and I ate our soup, was only a convenience–something to create the illusion that my mother actually existed. But the real night was somewhere else, and my mother–on the couch under the wedding scene by Breughel–was an imperious ward of the night with unusual powers. Once I saw her staring at the chicken coop across the alley, and it seemed that the pattern of the moonlight changed directions on the rug.
But there were other times when the couch didn’t cover her like a cloak and the walls didn’t let her fade. As if the night wanted to expel her, her hawk nose became sharper, her eyes became brighter, and her thick hands became unbearably distinct. Having lost control over the night, she turned to the apartment. She said  it was a slum and being there at all there was my father’s fault because he hadn’t found us a better house.
She wrung her hands and looked at the ceiling as if invoking a family of bats. Her voice rose, the furniture seemed to stiffen and  the ashtrays looked polite. In the hall neighbors paused–discreetly, because the boards creaked.
Eventually my mother’s voice would blow in my direction, like a monsoon remembering its season. In spite of her cluttered closets, my mother’s memory was neat. Nothing I’d ever done, or not done, eluded her:
“I begged you to leave the house, but you insisted on trying on those gloves. Those crummy dime-store gloves. Pieces of cheap felt! I begged you and begged you but you tried them on. Hours while I waited in the hall. Hours! We missed the bus! We missed the bus! You tried on those gloves and we missed the bus!”
Sometimes in the heat of her tirade she would decide I wasn’t clean. Then she would fly at me, undress me, and put me in the tub, invading me with soap and language. But these scenes were reserved for the greatest miseries, the nameless, wrenching kind that could only be relieved by an assault on another body. More often, she dismissed me, and turned her attention to the smaller objects in the house, who witnessed her like frightened rabbits.
“Look at this!’ she’d say, picking up a clock and throwing it against the wall. “Everything cluttered in this tiny room! Everything in a heap!”
The clock would fall to the floor–still itself, only with a hairline of glass across its face. Obediently, it kept on ticking.
“Books!” she would say. “Books and magazines everywhere!” From the bookcase, the embossed titles of the books  looked at her like eyes. She glared back at them, picked up a magazine and rattled it: “This thing! This goddamned thing!” she said, holding it in front of her and shaking the pages.

Usually I found myself in the same position as the objects: motionless, mute, enduring with a sense of apology. But one afternoon, as my mother hovered between absorption and exile, I went to her room and sat in front of her dressing table where her make-up was laid out in front of me: her mascaras, her eyeliners, her powder. There was also a small cut-glass pot of rouge from drama school–a rouge so red, so dark, so fragrant, it promised unholy forms of transformation. Without ceremony I opened it and rubbed it on my face. The effect was fascinating. Like an etching becoming visible, I became all radiant and red and strange, flying under the flag of another country.
When I came back to the living room, my mother had just assaulted one of her black, high-heeled shoes (those shoes that embarrassed me whenever I saw them), and was about to attack another one.
“This life!” she cried. “How I loathe and despise this life!”
She didn’t see me. I stood as still as the shoe waiting to be thrown. Red radiated from my face to my feet, riveting me to the ground. My mother turned to pick up the shoe and saw me.
“Get that red off your face!” she cried. “Go inside and wash that red off!”
I didn’t move. Inhabited by a power I didn’t understand, I stayed still, compressed and hard as stone. I felt small, yet billions of years old, like an alien and stubborn star. My mother stood poised, holding the shoe.  I stood in front of her, radiating.
Suddenly my mother started to laugh. It was an amazing laugh, as though her skin were about to crack open and lay bare her bones, as though something deep inside of her had burst. I stared at her, and she laughed and laughed and laughed, as though night were pouring out of her, from her bones to mine.

III. The Antique Writing Chest

The  chest came from England and was the sort of chest gentlemen of means took on journeys in the 19th Century. It had drawers, boxes for pen, ink, paper, sealing wax, and a sloped surface that one could write on. My mother bought the chest after she, my father and I drove up a winding road to the Bronte’s house and saw the impossibly small buttons on Charlotte’s wedding dress,  books the children had written in code–and the graveyard beyond the house. The antique store was at the bottom of the hill, and my mother saw the chest and wanted me to buy it.  But I was seventeen, unhappily wrested from my boyfriend, and on the verge of a nomadic life..   Periodically she’d ask me if I wanted it and periodically I’d say no.  The conversation became a kind of ritual between us.
But after my mother died–savagely, unhappily– I felt obligated to take the chest. I lugged it to the plane and lugged it up the stairs to the living room. When  I opened it idly, expecting to find nothing, I found letters she  had started to me and never finished, telling me she was going to kill herself.

There were also birthday candles from my birthdays long before she bought the chest, a rattle from my childhood, a picture of my mother when she was thirteen, and a braided candle that startled me because my mother had clung to my father’s Presbyterian roots, and had never celebrated the Jewish Sabbath.   There was also a single sentence, written on yellow note paper and it looked quite recent: When Eurydice knew she was to be chosen she suddenly became afraid even though it was really a very elaborate sojourn that was being prepared for her….There was nothing to go by, not even a map…

I looked at everything. The plastic candleholders in the shape of birds. A two-inch doll from Guatemala.. And as I looked I realized that the chest had become a haphazard postal system between a mother and a daughter. Again and again she had asked me if I wanted it. Again and again I’d said no. And all this time, she was filling it with things for me to find. There was also writing, startling with its imagination:

The dreamer sleeps and nothing can stop her  because sleep is a consuming possession, a lust that no one can observe.. At the same time sleep, the domain of the sleeper, is not comforting. It is cold, solid, burdensome. The eyelid repairs the night. It is morning and the typical day is commenced. Only the seasons change.

The chest smelled like my mother. Of pink face powder and cologne and cold cream. I put the chest in the living room . It stays there like a heartbeat.


IV Mildred

After my mother died, I was no longer able to write because I realized it had been her, after all, that I’d been writing to all along and she was no longer there. My mother had not liked my writing, and was disappointed that I didn’t write like H. H. Munro or Henry James or any one of a number of people who wrote in what she called good simple ways. “Why don’t you write what you know about?” she often asked.

What she meant was why couldn’t I write what she knew about. I never could. But after she died I realized I had always been writing to her and for her. My mother had wanted to be a writer but couldn’t cope with the occupational hazards of the trade nor did she have an audacious belief in the powers of her imagination. Her favorite line was from the Cherry Orchard in which a character said: “I could have been a Dostoyevsky.” The emptiness she felt wasn’t the emptiness mystics talk about, but an illusory emptiness that comes when one can’t use one’s powers. She didn’t want a child who bushwhacked into alien territory and when I did, she jealously imagined a  life of constant exhilaration I didn’t have. But I wasn’t as unhappy as she had been and, if I hadn’t known this already, it was made obvious by what she had written in the antique chest.

My mother had always been fascinated by ancient Asia and had bought an ancient map, which I put near the antique writing chest. She’d especially liked the myth from Nineveh that women made children from their own bones.   I knew there was a storyin the map, the way–at night, looking up from my desk– I imagined there was a cosmic lining in the sky, and if only I could open it, stories would tumble down. And I thought that I would break the silence by writing about Nineveh. But after a few days I took the map down. Nineveh was my mother’s story –if only she’d been able to write it.

After her death I kept looking for for signs that the silence would end. I read about a self-help book that had made thousands of people express themselves and bought the book, sure it would unleash me. A phrase would occur to me and I’d pummeled it until its letters shredded.

During that time, though, a curious kind of help came, and this was in the form of a pale wraith-like woman, who looked almost exactly the way my mother would have looked if she’d been happy. She was a small woman in her seventies with tiny, fluttering arms and a hooked nose. She wasn’t enrolled in the writing program where I taught  and asked  if she could audit a workshop. I said of course she could and she sat in back of the room, a grateful wraithlike radiance.

Her name was Mildred. Now and then she sat close to me, in the front row, off to my right.  She had a mole at the end of her nose, and unless I looked closely, I could never tell whether this mole was skin or moisture. This added to the impression that Mildred was melting. She always wore a green sweater covered with small woolen balls and dark brown pants. She had glasses like my mother’s, but her eyes emanated light. As I fielded competitive remarks from other students, I looked at Mildred and thought: I have been blessed, like a character in a story about Chassidim. My mother has returned to talk to me and let me talk to her.

I was embarrassed by my belief that Mildred had been sent to me. Embarrassed, too, that I wrote paeans about her that I never showed to anybody. I wrote them in long hand in a kind of hieroglyph that I couldn’t decipher later. But even though I never read them, these were the first things I wrote after my mother died. When a mean-spirited student asked why I was letting a seventy-year-old woman who wasn’t in the writing program audit a class that qualified graduate students hadn’t been able to get into, I looked at these very notes and said Mildred had once been an accomplished teacher and I wanted her to critique me. The student didn’t believe me, but when she complained, the head of the department looked the other way. Perhaps Mildred had been his lover once. Or maybe he knew I was reeling from my mother’s death. The idea of the two of them in bed amused me. She was so frail, he could break her bones.

Mildred gave me just one story. It was about an older woman who took a younger woman in as a boarder in her cavernous apartment. The younger woman was a cellist who spent hours playing Bach Inventions while the older woman served her tea. She met an archaeologist and left to get married.

The story was well-written and generous about another life—generous in a way  my mother would have been if she’d been happy. After I read the story, I waited for Mildred to come back so I could tell her how much I liked it. But she’d vanished. Later someone told me that she’d gone to many classes in the writing program and always submitted the same story. “No doubt she wrote it herself, but a long time ago,” a colleague said, laughing in a mean-spirited way. I asked her what the story was about. The colleague said it was about buying a rug in a peasant town in Italy. This convinced me that Mildred wrote about the cellist for me—a veiled and allegorical letter, giving me permission to be happy. After a while, the belief that she was sent faded, the way dreams fade.. Even so, it surfaces, this fierce belief that my mother broke through death to be with me, broke through to wish me well.


Becoming Lucky: The Freedom of Writing Nonsense


Copyright Thaisa Frank


Grammatical Nonsense:
Writers generally write to discover what they mean, not to record what they already know. The cool idea that triggers a story doesn’t generate a story. Improvisation does.   If there is no surprise for the writer, there will be no surprise for the reader. Flannery O’Conner, said that when she wrote Country People she didn’t know the Bible salesman was going to steal the woman’s wooden leg until a few sentences before it happened.


Writing is a complicated, subliminal conversation every writer develops in a unique way, and a conversation that no writer is that aware of.


In other words: It isn’t the same as thinking.


But before any of us write creatively, we have learned to associate writing and reading with thinking, starting with learning to write and culminating with reading and discussing books . The books themselves have the authority of publication (anything looks better in print), and look as though they emerged that way. Then we are assigned essays and told that we must outline—essentially thinking everything in advance.   So it’s natural that writing of any kind is associated with thinking and that even when writers know it doesn’t work that way all kinds of thoughts intrude. “I should write the opening scene first because you have to write in sequential order.”   Or: “Wait! I can’t mention the grandmother’s scar because I haven’t gone into detail about the accident when she was twelve, fifty years ago.”

Another alternative is to imitate writers we admire. After all, they have been published.


When I think about how not to think and how not to imitate, I remember Lucky, who made an outrageously nonsensical speech in Waiting for Godot, freeing language from the burden of meaning. He spoke strings of nonsense, some of it grammatical, and writing grammatical nonsense is a great way to lose self-consciousness and stop premature editing.


The rules are simple. 1. the sentences must be grammatical. 2. The words mustn’t link together in any consciously associative way. The brain automatically makes sense of grammatical language. Don’t worry if the words carry metaphoric weight or make sense after you’ve written them.


Here’s an example:


Although spoons create kymographic leaves, the undulating verve of the bracken riveted rice, and when the fuliginous failed, luminous clack vied looms with a sandwich, but the miracle mill raced on and a liver starch imported gibbour grommets. So the onerous futhark of climes unfurled. After the bombastic fungi filibustered the switchyard, imperilment dined. Ladder! Units! The potash massacre is electrolyzed.


There are many ways to write nonsense. You can look around the room and start with objects. (Be careful, though, that you don’t choose objects that are normally linked together—for instance, if you see a fork and a spoon on the table choose one.   You are creating a random universe. You can also look up words in the dictionary. And if you look up words in different parts of the newspaper, you will begin to mix up words from completely different worlds. Calibration from a science article will join poach from the cooking section. Crepuscular from an article on cats will join bookrunner from the stock section.


There are various benefits to this exercise, especially if you do it for a couple of minutes a day. This is an easy exercise to do at the spur of the moment. For instance, the next time you’re talking to an interminably slow customer service person about an online banking problem and are placed on hold you can scribble some nonsense on a scrap of paper instead of looking at your phone. People experience several benefits to this exercise, among them discovering dialects they once spoke and finding images to use in writing that rise out of the nonsense.   The most pervasive benefit, however, is that the inner critic, the inner editor, the inner thinker, the inner commenter, the inner imitator and the inner anticipator begin to fade out of the writing process. All these inner-personae are backseat drivers concerned with getting to the end of a piece of writing using a logical, pre-planned route. But when you give them the job of not making sense, they begin to work very hard to do this and when you sit down to write sense, they learn to stop talking.


This is an exercise you can’t fail at. The very worst that can happen is that you will make sense.




Chekov’s characters] do not exactly forget to be themselves. they forget to act as purposeful fictional characters; they mislay their scripts; they stop being actors–James Wood, The Broken Estate

Writers are hopelessly dependent on characters. Besides being the chief elements readers can identify with,  they’re the only elements besides the writer that can change what happens. It’s what characters want or don’t want that changes things, and narrative arcs (and plots)  that don’t flow from their desires are rarely believable. (We all know about stories that end with lottery wins, people dying or another act of God.)

Characters are the victims or the heroes of the story. They are effected by events and push back against them–or don’t.  In fact, fiction depends on characters so much there’s a myth that you have to start with a clear idea of a character or characters. But characterization is a notion invented long after people began to tell stories. Some writers start their stories with an image, a plot, a title, a or scene and meet their characters later. And writers who start with characters may seem luckier, but often these characters resist a narrative arc. What is true is the eventually, the plot must flow from the motivation of the characters.  Characters either transform or don’t.  And transformation or resistance to transformation is a key element in creating the  illusion of time in fiction.


In the beginning of almost every good story, whether it is intentional or not, almost all writers consistently reveal the following information about the character. If you read any number of beginning pages, you’ll discover that this is true:



level of education


Except for one dramatic event (and sometimes not even one) the plot should flow from the motivations of the characters

You don’t have to start a story because of an interest in a character;; but ultimately the characters must begin to guide the story.

The writer is always separatefrom the characters.

Characters usually change stories by acting out of character in convincing ways orby having an opportunity to act out of character and thus change their lives and not taking the opportunity.

Most dialogue between characters reflects a relationshipbetween two people, rather than a monologue.

Although almost every good story identifies characters quickly, neverinclude something about a character that doesn’t interest you.


A Short Lexicon

Narrative persona— The narrative persona is the cloak–or personality–that the writer assumes in order to tell a story. One might think of it as the narrator behind the scenes—so even in first person narrations, there is an invisible puppet master guiding the unfolding of the story.

The narrative persona defines the writer’s relationship to the characters—whether the narrator feels distant from them, close to them. It also includes the writer’s sense about the truth of the story. Characters may believe things that the narrative persona isn’t convinced of, and may not believe things that the narrative persona is convinced of. Narrative persona is conveyed by tone, pacing, use of language, distance from characters, and concentration on (or lack of concentration on) description.  The persona in Felicity’s Journeyis a different persona from the one who wrote William’s Trevor’s short fiction.

Narrative personais different from point of view, which defines the various perspectives from which a story is told. Pont of view intersects with the work of the narrative persona because writers often feel a tension between the narrator, who in some sense is inthe story and  the omniscient writer (who is in some sense outsidethe story). One might say that the writer, who knows the story, is always banished from the story precisely because the knowledge prevents the unfolding and discovery of the story.

Embodiment—is the literal sense of a character’s body, moving through space and taking up room as a physical presence. A kinesthetic sense of a character lets you have  transmit a character instinctively.  Sometimes, it can create a character without a lot of description.  If you’re character is embodied, it’s often easier to convey how characters relate to the space around them—how they walk down the street, what objects are important to them.



Suggested Text:THE BROKEN ESTATE-by James Wood, Essays on Literature and Belief

Writing About Writing: A Cautionary Tale


searching for origins

On Amazon there are over 8,000 books about writing. There are how-to-write-a-bestseller-books, how-to-survive-as-a-writer books, how-to-write-detective-story books, how-to-write-bodice-ripper books. Write-a-novel-in-five-days-books. No wait! Write-a-novel-in four-days.
For every book about writing there are a thousand online sites with tips about how to write & essays from writers about their process and their lives. There are point- of-view books, character books, plot books, subtext books, plot-arc books, character-arc books, voice books and tone books. Many are written by writers.(I wrote one : ) )
Books & online publications form a strong invisible community for a profession that works in silence. Intentional or not, they comfort loneliness and low morale–both occupational hazards of the writing profession. They all have concepts that ring* interior bells for a writer.

But they can mess things up if their advice about craft and their admonitions about ideal work hours, interfere with first drafts where the writer needs to discover the story haphazardly, on her own, discarding characters, disregarding plot, trying different tenses, perhaps at three in the morning. The books are talking about strands of something organic and parts never add up to the whole.
Ironically, When the writing happens, the writer has disappeared into the work and can’t really tell you how it got done. Nor can she ever see her work for the first time. Even so, she might write a book about what happened–a remarkable fishing story, where the most crucial events happened below the surface.

*had written “wring interior bells”–actually, both are true…

Worlds in Fiction: Balancing Figure & Ground

Worlds in Fiction- A key to subtext

When you read a good writer the world, for that moment, can seem no other way. Crime and Punishment is imbued with Dostoyevsky’s sense of the world. If Tolstoy written Crime and Punishment, we would have visited a different Russia. One might argue that Tolstoy couldn’t have written Crime and Punishment; but Crime and Punishment is so imbued with Dostoyevsky’s sense of the world it’s almost impossible to imagine the book written by anybody else.

To write, then, is not just to tell a story, but also to create a world in which your characters live. These worlds can be ordinary like the world of Ferrante, fantastic, like the world of Calvino,  or somewhere in between, like Remainder by McCarthy. Worlds are shaped as much as by what is left out as by what is left in.

All readers are aware of them subliminally This is why some mystery readers choose English cozies and others choose techno-thrillers. These worlds include qualities of weather cityscapes, landscapes, and sensate objects, ranging from fruit to velvet. They also include the singular vision of the writers.  (The Age of Wire and String by Ben Marcus is an example—a book so good that many voice-driven writers say it made them want to give up writing.)

On might say that a world is ground and narrative is figure. Interesting fiction is a balance of world and narrative.  But unseasoned writers often focus on narrative so characters hanging in empty space. If you have trouble creating a world, spy on the way you pay attention.

Here are a few ways to spy


The Inner World


Make the journal dangerous:  Discover what you don’t know about your day instead of what you already know: We all have a running story about our day, based on what we know we did.  (Had to teach a class. Couldn’t find my keys. Almost late and couldn’t find a place on the UC Campus. Etc.)  But If I allow myself to remember my day quickly, I’ll see a few images, or hear a few bits of dialogue that have made an impression.  (The green rim on the white plate. “Those McNuggets are real good,” he said.)

This quick log, has a lot of benefits: You’ll begin to have a lexicon of what interests you. You’ll remember the day more vividly than you’d remember a blow-by-blow account of your day.  You’ll begin to have a lexicon of what interests you.  It will take a few minutes at any time of day.

Discover what you don’t know about your dreams.  Freud, Jung and a lot of other people have told us how to understand dreams and you may rush to understand the symbolism or decide how it relates to your life. But if you review your dream quickly and write down a few images, you’ll begin to have another lexicon.

You may never use any of these things in your fiction—but you’ll start to focus different.  These exercises bring you closer  to the way you pay attention, to the concrete sensory things that interest you and your imagination.

The Outer World

Eavesdrop: You’ll be forgiven if you write good dialogue as a result.  People often speak elliptically and poetically.   Their voices are the chorus of the worldMedia

Media. Do you ever look at the Enquirer at the supermarket–the most surreal literary fiction in this country? Or race to see what the NY Times is reporting about fashion?  Have you read posts like “Twenty Movie Stars Who Now Work in Offices”? The easiest way to do this is to look at Show All History on your computer. (Be honest!)

Research. Create a list of questions about your outer world, with particular attention to a sense of place. For example: What houses have I lived in?  What streets have I walked on?  What do I remember about the last room I saw?

As must be clear, a world often depends on a sense of place, or places.  You can play with this by changing your perspective on a place. For instance, imagine what it’s like to walk down a familiar street as if you were from the future or the past, a spy on a mission from another country.

Most people don’t think that what they notice is interesting because it’s what they’ve always noticed.   The more you pay attention to what you notice, the more you’ll understand that no one else has your perspective.  Appreciating what you notice (and not longer thinking it’s a boring, obvious perspective) is the key to creating an interesting fictional world.


To Speak or Not to Speak: Tricks for writing dialogue

Conversation is a journey and what gives it value is fear.  You come to understand travel because you have had conversations, not vice versa. Anne Carson, The Anthropology of Water.

Like polite guests at a party, writers rush to fill in the silence between characters. This usually results in predictable dialogue that bores the reader and the writer..(“Hi,” she said. “Hi,” he answered.)  But dialogue is rarely a direct exchange and is often most important because it reflects what characters don’t say rather than what they do say. To put it differently: Dialogue often bears the burden of the unsaid.

It also reflects the relationship between people. One might say that the relationship is a third character and this is what drives  conversation.

Think, for example, of throwing a ball against a fence. Before it comes back to you, you hear the sound of the ball against the fence. That sound is like the moment between one character’s speaking and another responding. It’s the most important beat.

Before going any further, it’s important to remember that most writing tips are helpful after you’ve been spontaneous, made mistakes, and written a hundred “Hi,” she saids.   If you clench yourself up and try to think too much your writing will be stalled and become a head trip with a new inner critic inside.

Unless you’re a writer to whom dialogue comes easily, getting characters to talk naturally takes time and mistakes. You have to learn to listen to the dialogue rather than think it.

Having said this, one trick is to learn to cross out beats.  In the process you will eventually discover that you have written something interesting in the midst of all the verbiage.

Here’s an example of crossing out beats:

‘”Hi,” he said.

“Hi ,” she answered.

“Did you go to the store?” he asked

“I went before I left for work,” she answered.

“Did you buy potatoes?”

“Yes. They’re in the pantry.”

“I don’t see them.”

“They’re in that bag.”

“In the bag?”

“Yes. It’s in the pantry,”

“How come you put them in the pantry?”

“It was the easiest place.”

“How come?”

“The path’s a mess. I set down the bag and when I picked it up the bottom had oil from when you worked on the car.”

There’s a long interchange between A and B that’s boring and predictable. But eventually the dialogue starts to illuminate the relationship. If you cross out all the beats that aren’t interesting, you’ll get:

“Did you go to the store?” he asked.

“The path is a mess,” she said. “I set down the bag and when I picked it up it was all full of oil from when you worked on the car.

More often than not, you will find that you have written interesting and illuminating dialogue.  It’s just gotten lost with unnecessary beats.

The more you become familiar with crossing out dialogue beats, the more you will learn to listen to your characters when you write. You also may begin to pick up what’s not being said when you listen to people talk.

copyright Thaisa Frank: Essays on Writing Fiction/please contact before reproducing; please reference this article and credit it.  Thanks!






Velvet Flash

In addition to phone calls and letters, its time for writers to have a velvet revolution.  I’m creating a webpage called Velvet Flash where anyone can post flash fiction. Aside from a 500-word limit, the only requirements are use of the imagination– one the most radical of freedoms—which means a limit on hatespeakweaponized fear and gratuitous violence.  It can be fabulist, surreal, or realist. Nothing needs to be directly political.You can write 100-word stories about secret acts of defiance. Or a confession from one of DTs ties. It can be about imaginary meetings between you and the government. Confessions from imaginary government officials. Spies with secret powers. Strange protests.


200px-L.N.Tolstoy_Prokudin-GorskyWriting shapes our thoughts, our ability to see things freshly and  this fiction helps shapes our perceptions of the rest of the world.  Generally novels do the shaping.  Now and then flash or a short story (think of The Lottery) is powerful.  It also works for writers writing long pieces and feeling stymied during a troubled time. Flash can occur iduring a break, in a blank moment in front of the computer, washing dishes.  Writing it will remind you that you can indeed write! If you’re interested, please send your piece with a thumbnail photo to

​The website Velvet Flash will be up in about two weeks.
An important note:​This project isn’t meant to be a panacea to the horrifying  results of the election.

There are also so many other things to do For example, in addition to calling your congressmen, there is an ongoing list on Jezebel of organizations that need support.  I also read into the following article on Vox  about the best way to talk to racially biased or LGTB– biased people. It was quite enlightening for me.

 The Grotto, where I belong, is in the midst of having long discussions about writing to influence both people and the media. I

Above all:

in addition to activism now, it will be very important to keep 
constant pressure on the press.  No matter what people say about
who will run the government, there will be surprises and shocks and
justification for horrifying programs and actions.   The press
normalizes such things–as they did with G.W. Bush.   It would be great
to be on the alert, and write collective letters to all the major newspapers.
It would also be great to arrange to have some of them published, as
the Authors Guild did with Amazon.   It would involve raising money
in a Kickstarter program and being ready to spring into action with a
So there’s a lot of work to be done on  a concrete level  and Velvet Flash is just reminder that writing itself is a radical act.  And flash is just one way to remind writers of their power.

From Anecdote to Story: Turning Life into Literature



Note:  Because so many first attempts at fiction start out with stories from the past and from family, I have made the conventions of family life a touchstone for discovering freedom as a writer.  But everything I’m saying here applies to all fiction—and to all vague ideas for stories that strive for a universal component that will reach people outside of the sensibility of the writer.


I bring you some water lost in your memory

 follow me to the spring and find its secret.

Patrice de la Tour Du Pin

One fall day when I was about thirteen, a neighbor who belonged to the Ladies Christian Temperance Union appeared at the door of our apartment. She was dressed in a navy-blue suit, wore a pill-box hat, and carried a large white envelope that bore the slogan Better government through faith. My mother, in her perennial green housecoat, smoked a cigarette and finished the remains of a sandwich. She put her plate over a copy of _The Nation_ on the coffee table.

The neighbor walked inside, looked around our small apartment. “I have a favor to ask,” she said, waving the white manila envelope at my mother. “Could your husband possibly drop this off at his office? It’s for the community.” My mother was a rabid atheist as well as a Marxist. When I begged to go to Unitarian Sunday school, she always bellowed: “Religion is sheer crap! The opiate of the people!” Now she took the pamphlet, smiled at the neighbor, then looked at me menacingly and pulled her skin below her left eye. This was my mother’s idea of a secret family signal. Sometimes it meant this person is peculiar. This time it meant shut up.

Later that year, I was assigned an essay called “The Most Amazing Epiphany of My Life.” “Without a doubt,” I wrote, “the most amazing epiphany of my life occurred when my mother turned into a toady for the Ladies Christian Temperance Union.” The mother of Tobias and Geoffrey Wolff, once said, quite wisely: “If I’d known my kids were going to be writers, I would have given them a very different childhood.” My mother, who had less perspective, found my essay and tore it into shreds. “Don’t you evah,” she said, in her most theatrical voice “write anything about us again! We are your family!”

It’s not an accident that I learned about the dangers of truth-telling in a family setting. Families are tight survival units, and have explicit and implicit rules about what can be told—both inside the family and outside. The injunction not to break these taboos evokes tribal culture when families can be murdered for breaking norms. Not all taboos are there for the writer to break publicly. Some may need to be respected. But the writer’s workroom should be a place that’s safe where taboos are broken.

Without a doubt watching my mother tear up my essay terrified me. But there was also another reason I stopped writing from personal experience, and this was because what I wrote seemed too easy: Revealing my mother’s hypocrisy was a delicious form of revenge; but it stayed within the form of an anecdote.

What I sensed, but couldn’t put into words, was that there was a difference between an anecdote and a story. When you relate an anecdote, you’re a found character and this creates an automatic tension between the “I” who is telling the story and the “I” who is in the story. Furthermore, most things that happen to people become “just so” stories on paper. They don’t transform, twist, or bend. Nor do they seem universal but are particular to the people in the anecdote. This is why so many stories that are verbally entertaining or deeply moving fall flat through the paper. It’s also why people buy ghostwritten biographies of celebrities: We’re already curious about the character. The promise of revealing secrets has enough universal appeal to create the sense of a narrative arc because going from knowing less to (supposedly) knowing more can feel like a delicious journey.

No Surprise for the Writer, No Surprise for the Reader

 I began to learn about turning anecdotes into stories fifteen years later when my first collection was being published. Most of the stories had elements of surrealism. But there were two stories based on my family that the editor discovered and loved.

Although I can tell shocking things about my childhood and love being outrageous, I’ve always shied away from writing about my life. In addition, the voice and content of these two stories didn’t fit with the rest of the book. I wanted to take them out, my editor wanted to keep them, and we argued endlessly. I lost the argument—but with a compromise: I would write a novella about my childhood as a separate part of the book. This would create a sense of balance and distinguish between the two voices.

When I began the novella, I was always surprised because even though the stories were faithful to the facts there were always few elements that were a slight deviation from what I remembered. I didn’t know where they came from but I always knew they belonged. In every case, I discovered they contained a crucial truth. And after I had written the book, I felt that I’d lived a slightly different childhood precisely because of these surprises.  (In a sense, the failure of the intended story guaranteed the success of the final story.)  (See Yuri Zalkow’s innovative rendition of this idea, after he interviewed me for The Rumpus

There was one story, however, that I couldn’t write and had to write because it was crucial to the sequence. It was a story I’d told to several people—in the way I told outrageous stories about my family. I knew the events, but couldn’t make it a story.

The anecdote is as follows: When my father got a job in another part of the country, we set off in our car at nine at night against the advice of friends, who offered places to stay. My mother believed we would stop at a luxury hotel and didn’t seem to notice when we drove right by it. Eventually it was one in the morning and all the motels were filled.

After we left a town with apocalyptic smoke from a steel mill, my mother realized we hadn’t stopped at the luxury hotel and began to scream at my father. At one point she opened the car door and threatened to jump out. Chaos ensued.

I knew the sequence of events. But I couldn’t feel any tension or universal resonance until one day I heard the following sentence: My mother shouted that she was really leaving and opened the door so wide I could see the whole Midwest—far too real for the likes of us.

As soon as I heard this, I knew I had my story. At the time this was an intuitive understanding. A few years later, I understood why: My feeling about the Midwest being too real for all of us transformed my mother’s actions from something that was purely violent into a collective sense of being trapped as a family.  We were trapped together and also trapped because we had a sense of not being able to function in the real world.

In order to turn an anecdote into a story one must find the hidden story that runs beneath events like an underground river and eventually gushes up.   It’s this collision that creates a story that has universal resonance. Not every one has a histrionic family or mothers who try to jump out of cars. But every one has seen someone we’re close to lose it, and our feelings are usually a mixture of resentment and compassion, although we may not be aware of the compassion at the time. It can also have an element of identification that we’re not aware of.

An anecdote doesn’t need a hidden story to create tension. Your telling it is the tension. But if something on paper doesn’t have a hidden story, it won’t find tension or an arc.

Triggering and Generative Elements

The poet, Richard Hugo, wrote about the difference between

Triggering and generative elements in writing. Triggering elements are catalysts for stories and poems, but unless they generate new material, the piece won’t get off the ground. One might say that the anecdote never needs to go beyond the triggering element of memory to find a generative element that can reach all readers. This is because it’s an oral narrative. But to leap from the personal to the universal–i.e. to get your story on the page– you must be willing to let the triggering material generate. This means being willing to improvise, invent, and even omit cherished scenes. If you’re willing to do this, your story will be a slightly different story from the story you thought you were going to write. And if the generative material goes far enough, you’ll leap from writing about what is meaningful only to you to something that reaches a stranger.  You will also discover something about your life that you didn’t know.

Learning to turn anecdotes into stories isn’t a sure-fire formula for dealing with writing about family secrets. Even if you write a good story, there are times when you decide not to publish for the sake of someone else’s feelings. These are personal decisions every writer must make.

But when you ‘re writing drafts based on real events, you must feel free to write whatever you want to write and experiment with invention as well as ruthlessness. Otherwise, your writing room will be full of locked closets.

Just as there’s no map for revealing family secrets, there’s no map for turning an anecdote into a story. This comes to writers through grace, serendipity, hard work, and a willingness to discover something new about themselves and people or events in our lives. It also requires a slight irreverence for facts, and a fierce belief in the regenerative powers of the imagination. As the French poet, Robert Ganzo has written:



Invent. There is no lost feast

           /At the bottom of memory.

Avoiding the Linear Fallacy in Writing


Avoiding the Linear Fallacy in Fiction and Creative Non-Fiction

 The imagination is the weather of the mind

The mind is part of the weather–

Wallace Stevens Adagia

This essay happened because I wrote one book that took place in WWII and a lot of people asked me how I did my research. Research is a broad term.   But when writers talk about research, the word  funnels into a vision of 3×5 cards, deliberate reading, and carefully-planned interviews.  In truth, the hardest work you will ever doc in a good book is finding its shape, or to put it differently: The most difficult part of writing a book is finding the narrative arc.  Traditional research becomes important to most fiction writers and some non-fiction writers as the shape and the arc of the book takes place.  Traditional research happens through planned reading, interviews, talking to colleagues, and results in getting facts straight, including dates, chronology, spelling, and verifying events and scenes. Contrary to most thinking, this research is the easiest.   But in most cases this research should come last and when it’s the first things writers do, they often gets stalled.

The Prescience of the Creative Process

When I’d written just one collection of short stories, I heard a woman’s voice from deep below the earth. She was blond, in her thirties, and lived in Germany during World War II. I saw her helping multi-lingual prisoners answer letters to the dead. I knew her name and could feel her claustrophobia. I also heard some of the letters.  I wrote sixteen pages and stopped because I knew that this woman lived in a world with so many strands only a novel could do it justice. What I’d written were a few musical notes, surrounded by hours of silence.  But I only knew how to write short fiction and put the sixteen pages away.

I wrote other books, but the sixteen pages kept turning up in my studio, as if attached to springs. They turned up on the bookshelf.  They turned up in a tax pile. They turned up under my printer. They even turned up inside a flyer from my son’s school—a long flyer, pleading for ecologically packed lunches. They began to feel like the woman’s voice, impatient to tell her story. The paper grew more brittle. I began to use a computer and the typewriter print looked ancient.

Whenever the sixteen pages appeared, I felt drawn to them. But I never wrote another word.

A few years ago, someone at a Christmas party told me that the philosopher Martin Heidegger had a revelation that was catalyzed by his own eyeglasses.  As soon as I heard this, I saw the title Heidegger’s Glasses and knew I was going to write a novel.  I had no idea what it would be about, but was sure it involved World War II.  At this point the sixteen pages stopped popping up until the exact day I received final galley proofs from the publisher. They’d hidden while I was writing, but reappeared—again on invisible springs. The few passages I’d written were the same as passages in the novel. I also found some details in time to add them to the galley.

After I re-read the sixteen pages, I realized they were a DNA of almost everything that became Heidegger’s Glasses. Through stumbling and research, I’d linked an imaginary world to real events in World War II.


The Secret of Research: Avoiding the Linear Fallacy

Writers often ask how I write, and in particular how I dovetailed writing and research when I wrote a book set in WWII.

More than anything I emphasize I didn’t wait to do all the research until I began to write. I can’t emphasize enough how important this was and continues to be.  If I’d waited until I decided I had all the facts or knew how the novel was going to play out, I would have sabotaged myself because I’d already done a lot of research without knowing it.

To state it more abstractly: A book is linear. It starts on the first page and ends on the last and all the pages are numbered in sequence. But the process of writing a book is rarely linear. When John Gregory Dunn started The Red, White and Blue the only thing he knew was that the last word of the book would be Yes or No. It turned out to be No. Faulkner began The Sound and The Fury with the image of a little girl in a pear tree, looking in a window at her grandmother’s funeral. Her underpants were muddy and after he finished explaining why they were, he realized that whatever he’d written was going to be a novel. A non-fiction writer I know, Alison Owings, began interviewing women for Frauen, a book I used when writing Heidegger’s Glasses, before she knew she’d had enough information for a book. Many writers write the last scene and work backwards. Others start from the middle

But writers hoodwink can themselves by thinking they should start from the beginning. They also believe they should “have all the facts” and wrestle everything into an outline.. This may be true for short pieces of journalism. But it isn’t necessarily true for longer pieces and isn’t at all true for fiction or a work that mixes fiction with fact: Writers write to discover what they don’t know, not to record what they already know. (I would add that all during this hit-and-miss process, I felt unbearably stupid. In retrospect, I can’t thank myself enough for being willing to stay in this utterly thankless state.)

Faith-based research 

This is research that is random.  One doesn’t know quite why one is visiting a particular place or reading about the Napoleonic wars.  In my case, I did totally random reading about WWII–not really knowing why I was choosing some books or articles over others. Like someone going through a free-bin, I saw documentaries, read, looked at photographs and talked to people about Germany during WWII.

In the process of very random reading, I discovered two obscure facts that gave the book its narrative arc.  This helped me link a ghoulish procedure called Operation Briefaktion with The Reich’s interest in the occult.

I hoodwinked myself and thought I knew less than I did.  To the extent that I ploughed ahead anyway, I accumulated material.I would divide this sort of research into “stuff I already knew,” “unintentional research” and “life.” I realize it’s vague—but starting with what was vague allowed me to whittle things into concrete images and what we call “facts.”

Here are examples of this kind of research that turned out to be essential to Heidegger’s Glasses

Stuff I already know There’s a whole category of things I’d call “stuff I ready know or stuff I know how to do,” whether it’s the history of graphic novels or how to make an omelet.  To the extend that I plowed ahead in the novel anyway, what I already knew helped drive the novel.   To the extend that I thought I knew less than I did, I hoodwinked myself. In may case, “stuff I already knew” included Heidegger’s Being and Time, which blew my mind after dry undergraduate work in philosophy of science. WBy the time I heard about Heidegger’s glasses at the Christmas party, he was a towering, enigmatic presence–someone whose mind had made me walk around New York in an altered state of consciousness for two weeks.  I’d known Heidegger was a Nazi and often wondered how he could create a brilliant cosmology of being without an ethical system.

“Stuff you already know, or know how to do” is often the unwitting catalyst for being interested in a particular topic. It’s something writers discount.But without my background in Heidegger, someone telling me a story at a party would have been nothing more than an entertaining moment.

 Unintentional research: I’d also done the kind of reading many writers do when they’re drawn to a subject before they know they’ll write about it. A few years after I wrote those sixteen pages, I felt compelled to read everything I could about World War II without knowing why. I was also drawn to books. For instance, one day when I went to a bookstore to get out of the rain, I found a book on the bookstore’s bargain table called. The Lodz Ghetto: Inside a Community Under Siege, published in 1991.

Except for some photographs, The Lodz Ghetto consists of documents in chronological order. The documents detail the dissolution of Lodz, where 200,000 Jews were forced into slave labor before deportation to extermination camps. The documents alternate between coded diaries of prisoners and decrees from the Reich about food rations, round-ups and deportations. Many coded diaries were by writers enlisted by the Reich as official Scribes to praise life in the Lodz ghetto. A famous Austrian writer named Oskar Rosenfeld had an extraordinary depth of vision. His sensibility helped create an important character.

The book had diaries of prisoners alternated with photocopies of the decrees, so I had the sense of being a prisoner in Lodz with other prisoners, crowded around the decrees, reading to discover what was going to happen to me next. Each decree tightened the vise and pointed toward the cremation of everyone in the Ghetto. This gave the book a novelistic momentum and was the kind of serendipity that can come from unintentional research.


All writers have things that happen to them that affect their interests and their research, although they may not know this until years later.

One hot summer day, in New York City, I brought my broken typewriter to Stanley Adelman, who owned Osner’s Typewriter on Amsterdam Avenue. I was young, in a state of sheer panic about ending a relationship, and in no condition to understand anything about machines. Stanley Adelman could see I was frazzled and only wanted to drop off my typewriter. But he insisted on explaining and re-explaining every gear and wheel until he was sure I understood what was wrong.

While he talked, I had the sense that he wouldn’t settle for anything less than absolute contact. His blue eyes were intense and telegraphed such an urgent demand that I understand, I began to listen until it was clear how a typewriter worked—a miracle since the mechanical world can elude me. From the periphery of my vision, I saw blue numbers on his arm. He must have been very young when he was at Auschwitz, but I could imagine he’d been in situations where he had to transmit and listen to information in a state of terror or near-terror (which is what I was feeling.) We became good friends and I got to know his wife. But he never told me that almost every published writer in the city brought him their typewriters: I found this out when I read his obituary in The New York Times.

I’d already started the novel and we’d lost touch when I moved toCalifornia. As soon as I read about him I remembered him in detail and felt a kinship between his sensibility and that of Oskar Rosenfeld, the scribe in the Lodz Ghetto. The two of them merged into a character who became Heidegger’s optometrist and was sent to Auschwitz. More importantly, however, I realized that meeting him was the beginning of my interest in WWII, and it set me on a path.

Although fiction writers and journalists may start from opposite ends of a spectrum, at some point everyone’s mucking about in the middle. I would urge all writers to understand that the imagination also has phalanges that reach into the objective world. It’s nourished by previous reading, thinking, and experience and has instincts that allow it to leap beyond the limits of what we think we know and travel to uncharted territories and distant centuries. Writing Heidegger’s Glasses was an adventure in discovering the fluid boundaries between the imagination and recorded history


Below are some tricks to avoid the Linear Fallacy.  I’m sure you can think of others:

If you’re contemplating a long piece, here are some questions to ask yourself:

1. Prior research

a. What prior knowledge has influenced what I want to write or reflects it now? b. What prior experience? c. people I associate with what I’m thinking about writing. d. Noteworthy conversations

2. Current strategies

a. If this were a work that depended solely on things I couldn’t look up, what do I think is the narrative arc?  (you probably won’t answer this question, but asking it will make you look for it)

b. What, scenes, characters, dialogue, etc. have I already imagined? Do some appear in what seems like the middle or the end?

c. Based on this, what scenes can I start to write? d. Have I written any of these scenes already?

Sometime you know part of the story in advance.  You may not know what comes before it, or after it.

In addition to drawing on all the unwitting research I’ve mentioned, writing before I knew how the novel would play out also kept me focused. The focus led to botched scenes that got better with revision. It also led to the right books, the right informal conversations, and the right interviews.

In Adagia, Wallace Steven’s phrases—the mind is part the weather and the imagination is the weather of the mind—aren’t presented as syllogisms. But it’s not much of a leap to say that the imagination is part of the world. That strikes me as a stunning miracle, because the imagination and consensual reality are always in conversation.


Jerusalem–An X-ray of The 21st Century

The Dead Sea

The Dead Sea

the Wailing Wall

the Wailing Wall


The Dead Sea

The Dead Sea

the Wailing Wall

the Wailing Wall

Jerusalem….beautiful, strange and troubled. Grateful for the stones. They’ve been broken, buried, excavated, broken, buried, and excavated. They’re patient and remember everything. Many people, on the other hand, seemed to be live enactments of some of the archeological layers you can stand on.

This ranges from a true sense of oppression to self-satisfied insularity.

I found the old city to have an intensely tribal feeling and a troubled heart: The visiting pilgrims, each with their own agenda. The people who live in different districts and don’t relate to each other. The security guards in front of the gate that leads to the Dome.

At the Protestant site of Jesus’s burial there were 40 charismatic Christians from California. They assured me they didn’t handle snakes but were less vague about speaking in tongues. “At one point their guide said, “The Romans got fed up with the Jews for all the trouble they made. They liked to throw rocks.”

(Hello–2,000-year-old man. Do you have an opinion on this?)

At the other site of the crucifixion and burial (The Church of the Holy Sepulcher) all the other Christians have to share, except for the Ethiopians who got kicked out, and have two small chapels on top.  (Their chapels are pathetically small. The Ethiopian priests live on the roof as ascetics in  tin houses with small half-domed windows on top.)

The Eastern Orthodox and the Catholics got the best spot. The Armenians and Coptics didn’t do so well. An Israeli told me this has resulted in brawls.

Here, I saw people rub the stone where Jesus was laid out, using various objects to get the vibrations to take home with them. There were credit cards and candles, crosses and purses. And a kind of frantic, laser-focused desire to get things.   I saw no one standing still and contemplating.

Each District had its own tourist mall. Glitter after glitter.   Trinket after trinket.  It reminded me of Times Square for the iconically-inclined.  Arab, Muslim, and Jewish women in different headgear, many with faces bent to the ground. Jewish kids who live in the Muslim district being escorted home by security guards with highly-visible guns.

The Wailing Wall has changed considerably, according to someone who has been here for a while.  It’s now almost as crowded as a subway.  The Little Wailing Wall in the Arab quarter, however, is one  few people know about.   I put in a small piece of paper with a poem by Yeats, and a koan:

What’s lost in the river is found in the river.

The old city is so compressed and so segregated, in some way it seems like an X-ray of the world’s problems.

There are many Israels.  And within those Israels there is conflict one can’t imagine.  There is even conflict between the strict Chassids and Israelis who may consider themselves cultural Jews but aren’t observant.

When I came back to my hotel at the German Colony, the desk clerk took one look at me, brought me food, wine, and insisted I eat.

“The only things that makes this city this city,” he said, “is that people pray. That’s the only thing that has lasted. The only thing that will never change.”


Aside from visiting homes, the time I felt the most harmony was in the city of Safed. It was the center of the flowering of Jewish mysticism in the 16th, 17th, 18th and 19th centuries had periods in which Muslims and Jews lived in harmony—although interspersed with atrocities, particularly to jews.


The inner city of Safid had a sense of joy and peace.   The streets were narrow and from somewhere I heard the sound of a flute.


I hesitated outside one of the oldest synagogues. My head wasn’t covered and I didn’t know if women were allowed. Two men who were talking outside extended their arms in a gesture of welcome.

Inside there was a very old man dovening, and, at a table, there was a man looking up things on a computer. There were books on various shelves.


The sound of the flute became louder and a teacher wearing tallis came into the room with about twelve children.   Some were black some were white, some were boys, some were girls. Some of the boys wore yarmulkes, others didn’t. He began to explain to the children about the synagogue.


The man at the computer continued to work.   The man who had been dovening lay down and slept.


This reminded me of the synagogue as a community—what I read about in Singer, for example.


Later, I went to a Yemenite stall where a woman was making wraps out of a spicy pancake and all kinds of people stood on the street, eating.


This experience was heartening and made me again remember what I’d put in the wall:


what’s lost in the river is found in the river