Forms of Devotion

by Diane Schoemperlen

  Every morning her husband sat in his blue shirt at the breakfast table, surrounded by the still life she had so carefully arranged: the yellow egg yolks, the red jam, the brown coffee, the purple lilacs on the windowsill, his red lips, white teeth, chewing and smiling. And while he admired the orange juice shot through with sunlight, Evangeline was left breathless and intoxicated with the pleasure of her own power. Of course she didn’t put it to her husband that way. Instead she said she was smiling because she was happy.

  Thirdly there was language.

  The Left Auricle is rather smaller than the right; its walls thicker, measuring about one line and a half; it consists, like the right, of two parts, a principal cavity, or sinus, and an appendix auricula.

  This love had come to Evangeline of its own volition, right out of the blue (long before shed married and discovered the meanings and messages of sky blue, baby blue, the wild blue yonder, or any other mutation of blueness). This love she was sharing with and passing on (she hoped) to her son who was just learning to read. He followed her around asking, “What does this say? What does that say?” For every room, when you looked at it that way, was filled with the printed word. Besides all the books which covered every flat surface, there were cereal boxes, labeled canisters, shampoo bottles, toothpaste tubes, postcards, and notes to herself stuck on the fridge, all of these covered with instructions, ingredients, reminders, names, and warnings. He came home from school with little books which she read to him every evening after supper. She nearly wept with happiness when he learned to pick out words by himself: the, you, go, no, pop, hop, hop on pop. She printed out lists of rhyming words like hook, hook, took, look, nook, rook, crook, shook, and they hugged each other with excitement. When she thought about all the words in the language, she had to marvel at the miracle of anyone ever learning to read in the first place. They were all geniuses, when you looked at it that way.

  Although she had no literary talent of her own and so had never written a story, a novel, or a poem, Evangeline kept the whole house full of books. There were bookcases in every single room, even the bathroom. The meals were slapdash and the house was a colorful mess, because when Evangeline was not changing the music, or arranging the new purple and turquoise jewel-tone towels in the bathroom, she was reading. She had a special little bookstand which she carried around the house with her so she could read while she cooked, while she ate, while she did the dishes, vacuumed, washed the colorful floors. Often she went to bed with a headache (and so had to say to her husband, “Not tonight dear, I’ve got a headache”) caused no doubt by eyestrain. But she preferred to think, in her more whimsical moments, that it was caused by the weight of all the words she’d jammed into her brain, all of them in there whirling and twirling, doing magic tricks, and juggling for position.

  Some words were better than others, she knew that by now. All words were not created equal. All words were more than the sum of their parts. A word like wither was better than either with or her, for instance. Solipsism was better than either soul or lips. Synergy was better than either sin or energy. Something was better than nothing. Her overstimulated husband usually grunted and suggested aspirin or therapy but she said shed rather suffer.

  Finally there was light.

  The Left Ventricle is longer and more conical in shape than the right ventricle, and on transverse section its cavity presents an oval or nearly circular outline…It also forms the apex of the heart by its projection beyond the right ventricle. Its walls are much thicker than those of the right side, the proportion being as 3 to I…becoming gradually thinner toward the base, and also toward the apex, which is the thinnest part.

  This was her secret love which she had learned from and shared only with herself. For years she had carried it on privately, in love with the muffled pacific light of the bedroom in the morning when it had snowed overnight. Or the amiable pink light of a clear summer morning (which she refused to believe, as her husband warned, was really a result of all the pollution in the dying air). Or the fast-fading light of a midwinter late afternoon which made her legs go weak with lassitude. Or the garish lurid light of a flamboyant sunset, a cliche certainly, but thrilling and unforgettable nonetheless. Or the spring sunbeams on the kitchen floor which her son, as a baby, had liked to sit and smile in like a little Buddha on the green linoleum.

  All of these explicit and unconditional lights she had recorded, not with her naked eye, but rather with her naked heart which, she imagined, operated much like a primitive camera, a pinhole in the center through which the illuminated images were funneled and then amplified.

  She had read of a university hospital study which determined that women are four times more likely to refuse a heart transplant than men. There must be a good reason for this.

  As she grew older, her heart was growing heavier (also longer, wider, thicker) and the spot of light was growing too. This process did not require talent. It only required patience and the imponderable passage of time.

  Right now, she figured, it was about the size of a regular incandescent light bulb, sixty or maybe a hundred watts.

  Soon it would be the size of a spotlight, a perfectly circular beam of lucidity. Then it would mutate into a strobe light, rendering all motion robotic and frenetic. From there it would transform itself into a searchlight, its radiant beacon searching out the secret corners of everything. Next it would expand to the size of a floodlight, washing away all color and confusion within its vast range.

  Finally the light of her life would achieve its apex, expanding inexorably and infinitely to illuminate all the spacious chambers of her heart.

  HOW TO WRITE A SERIOUS NOVEL ABOUT LOVE

  Begin with a man and a woman. Many famous novels begin with this familiar combination. Although it may at first strike you as rather trite, in fact, once you get going, you will find that it presents a vast array of possibilities.

  First of all, your man and woman will need names. Consider their selection very carefully. Vinny and Ethel cannot possibly live out the same story as Alphonse and Olivia. The reader may well have trouble taking seriously the fates of Mitzi and Skip. Sometimes neutral names are best. After much deliberation, decide to name your characters John and Mary. Avoid thinking about John the Baptist, Mary Magdalene, Mary Poppins, or the Virgin Mary. Presumably you are not writing a novel about any of them, not yet.

  Describe John.

  John has brown hair and brown eyes. John has blond hair and blue eyes. John has black hair and green eyes. John has no hair and no eyes. Pick one. Make John short or tall, fat or thin, pale or rosy-cheeked. Does John have a hairy chest? How big are John’s ears, feet, nose, penis? Give some thought to dimples, facial hair, birthmarks, scars, and tattoos. Does John’s Adam’s apple look like a grape caught in his throat?

  Move from character description to development. John wears gray sweatpants with a hole in the crotch. John wears black, always black, with a black beret. John wears plain white boxer shorts. John wears red bikini briefs. Does John believe in mouthwash, deodorant, foot powder, cologne? What does John see when he looks in the mirror? How does John feel about the shape of his chin, the color of his teeth, the size of his penis?

  Do not make John perfect. The reader, who is not perfect, will lose interest. And you, the writer, also not perfect, will lose credibility. Remember, this is supposed to be a serious novel. Above all else, make John human.

  Describe Mary.

  Again, hair, eyes, height, weight. Be sure the choices you make for Mary coordinate well with the ones you’ve made for John. How big are Mary’s lips, hands, eyes, breasts? Give some thought to cheekbones, crow’s-feet, beauty marks, facial hair, and tattoos. How long is Mary’s neck? How graceful are her arms when she throws them around John or pushes him away?

  Move from description to development. Mary goes barefaced into the world, her cheeks scrubbed smooth and shining. Mary spends an hour constructing a new face each morning with a sophisticated battery of potions, lotions, pen
cils, and brushes. Mary sleeps in a long-sleeved high-necked flannelette nightie. Mary sleeps in the nude. Does Mary shave her armpits and legs? Does Mary shave her legs only to the knee or all the way up? Does Mary believe in cosmetic surgery, aromatherapy, aerobics, vitamins, God? Does Mary have low self-esteem? Does Mary love herself more than anybody else in the whole wide world? Does Mary love herself more than she loves John?

  You must describe John and Mary in such detail because readers want to have pictures of them in their heads. Speaking of heads…

  Decide from whose point of view you will tell the story, into whose head the reader will be allowed access. Decide whose brain you are most interested in picking, whose thoughts will underscore, interpret, and otherwise illuminate the action. This narrator may tell the truth or lies. You decide.

  Avoid using the phrase she thought to herself. The reader will wonder who else she might have thought to. Remember that no matter how witty, intelligent, or perceptive John and Mary may be, they cannot read each other’s minds. If you decide to tell the story through Mary’s eyes, remember that she cannot see through walls. She cannot know for sure what John is doing when he is out of her sight. She can only speculate. She cannot even know for sure what John is doing in the very next room, unless of course the walls are very thin. Remember that every point of view harbors its own limitations.

  If you wish to dispense with this handicap entirely, choose the omniscient point of view. This narrator, like God, sees all, knows all, and feels free to tell all too. This eye in the sky can see what’s happening in Outer Mongolia, Brooklyn, and Brazil, while also being privy to the thoughts of John and Mary and anyone else who happens along. The omniscient narrator also knows the future and the past so be careful.

  No matter who is telling their story and/or their future, John and Mary still have to live somewhere. Do not make this decision lightly. Your choice will make all the difference in the world to John and Mary.

  If, for instance, you set your novel in the country, its pages will fill up with the smell of freshly turned earth, the growl of tractors and combines, the bleating of baby goats, the twinkling of stars in the vast black sky. The air in the morning will be tinted with the gentle green of trees in bud. Mary’s lips are stained red with raspberry juice. John wears denim overalls and gum boots. They never lock their doors. Mary bakes apple pies in the sunny farmhouse kitchen. John chops the heads off chickens. They sit together for hours on the front porch in straight-backed wooden chairs, peering at the pastoral evening sky, praying for rain.

  If, on the other hand, you decide to set your novel in a big city, its chapters will be laced with the exhaust fumes of rush-hour traffic jams, the hum of a million air conditioners, the urgent heart-stopping wail of sirens, the click of high heels on concrete, the grunts and sighs of impatient consumers lined up at ringing cash registers, the slick purr of men and women in power suits conducting high finance in hermetically sealed buildings. At night the office towers glow like radioactive monoliths.

  John and Mary live in the fast lane. They work hard to pay for the condo, the alarm system, the cleaning lady, the sailboat, the Christmas vacation in Switzerland. John is a corporate lawyer. Mary is a bond trader. They own a silver BMW. While John drives and curses the traffic all around them, Mary pops open her laptop and sends faxes all over the world.

  John starts sleeping with his secretary on Thursday afternoons. This is not very original. After eight months he breaks it off. Mary never finds out. Nothing is changed.

  On weekends in the city, John and Mary are always busy. They have many friends but they never have time to see them. They go to films, plays, operas, ballets, art exhibits, and antique auctions. They eat complicated international cuisine in expensive elegant restaurants.

  Of course John and Mary know full well that not everyone in the city is as privileged as they are. They know all about the poverty, the crime, the drugs, the homeless, the powerless, the helpless, children abducted and abused, women raped and battered, innocent people murdered for no reason. They see it on the evening news. They read all about it in the morning paper. They are appropriately shocked. Sometimes they see the evidence around them: a man sleeping in a doorway, a bullet hole in a plate-glass window, a bloodstain on a white wall, once the chalk outline of a victim like a hopscotch game on the sidewalk. But they know these things in a haphazard way, the way they know about hurricanes, famine, and war. They see them through a wall of shatterproof glass.

  Realizing that you know a lot about city life and virtually nothing about the country, decide to set your novel in the city. After all, you have always been told to write about what you know.

  Set your novel in a small old city on the shore of a large polluted lake, a clean respectable city with limestone buildings, heritage sites, sailboats and yachts in the harbor, a prestigious university, a large psychiatric hospital, and several prisons for both men and women. This is what you know. Change the street names to protect the innocent.

  Admit that you don’t know much about lawyers, bond traders, BMWs, or life in the fast lane. Admit that you have never had a cleaning lady, a sailboat, or a vacation in Switzerland. On weekends you do chores and get groceries at the mall. Then you have a nap.

  Make John and Mary ordinary people. Make Mary a teacher. Make John an employee of the railroad. Remember that all ordinary people are extraordinary in their own way. Remember that ordinary does not mean simple.

  If you wish, you may loosely base John and Mary on real-life people. If you are a woman writer, you may base Mary on yourself and John on some man you were once involved with. The real-life John may not appreciate this but then again, he may be flattered to find himself immortalized in print. The reader will enjoy speculating as to the true identities of John and Mary and the small old city in which they live. Later, when interviewers ask if your novel is autobiographical, say, “No, not exactly,” and smile enigmatically.

  John and Mary may or may not have children. In fiction, as in real life, this is a big decision. Remember that in fiction, as in real life, children are simultaneously miraculous and impossible, with an uncanny power to bring out both the best and the worst in the adults who love them. Remember that in fiction, as in real life, the advent of one or more children into a couples lives will change absolutely everything.

  Always bear in mind that in a serious novel, only trouble is interesting. This means tension, obstacles, conflicts, danger, and desire. This means plot. If John and Mary are happy at the beginning of the book, they must become unhappy later on. By the end, they may be happy again, still unhappy, or else one or both of them may die. A perfectly happy life is, no doubt, a wonderful thing to live, but in fiction it is boring.

  Don’t forget the villain. Every novel needs a villain. Male or female, make the villain despicable but interesting, vicious but exciting, evil but fond of children and small animals. In a serious novel, the bad guys do not wear black hats. Be careful not to make the villain more interesting than John and Mary.

  Although the predominant theme of your novel may be love, it is acceptable and often useful to include subplots which employ one or more of the classical categories of conflict. That is: man vs. man, man vs. nature, man vs. society, man vs. God, and man vs. himself. (Bear in mind that these categories were devised long ago when it was standard practice to refer to all humanity as man, so that in each of these constructions man also means woman. There are no parallel constructions in which woman also means man.)

  In a novel set in the city, it could be very interesting, for instance, to include a version of the conflict man vs. nature. This would allow for a subtext of adventure, danger, and potential heroics to which the average urban dweller does not often have access.

  One weekend John goes hunting with his buddies from work. Mary does not approve of hunting. They argue about it beforehand. Mary says that if John brings some dead animal home on the roof rack, she will not clean it, cook it, or eat it. She says she may not sleep with him
anymore either. John says, “Fine. Suit yourself.” He cleans his gun, stows three cases of beer in the trunk of the car, and dons his jaunty orange hunting cap to prevent being mistaken for a moose and accidentally shot in the head by one of his friends.

  On the first day all goes well. None of the men actually kill anything but they have fun tramping through the bush all day and then they drink a lot of beer and tell each other stories of all the other hunting trips they’ve ever been on. This is called male bonding.

  On the second day John sets out early while the others are still rolling and moaning in their down-filled bags, sleeping off all that beer. John goes deep into the forest. He hears rustling and snuffling in the underbrush. Stealthily he moves toward the sounds. John’s rifle quivers with excitement.

  Suddenly a huge brown bear bursts out of the bushes and rears up on its hind legs not six feet away from John. John drops his gun.