A Host, of Golden Daffodils

When Samir and I moved (back for me) to rural Arkansas about two-and-a-half years ago, it was the isolation that first appealed to us. For various reasons, Samir wanted to make a career change, and I was already flying home for work all the time. We wanted to consider what it might mean for both of us to just live here while I finished my book. So, in October 2017, we flew down to Arkansas to visit my mom in my tiny hometown, and I took him on a quick driving and hiking tour of the Ozarks.

It was autumn, but the leaves hadn't quite turned yet, and they are less vibrant and colorful here than in New England anyway. What didn't disappoint were the hills and craggy bluffs and fat fall rivers. We were near a small town called Vendor, inside a preserved bit of land called the Ozark National Forest, when Samir looked up and saw a steep ridge towering above us, rocky promontories pointing out over the valley, cows chewing on grass in the field below. "Fuck the world," he said, and laughed. "Let's just do this.

When we flew home after the trip, we ended up in bumper-to-bumper traffic coming out of National airport, even at 2 a.m., and it seemed to solidify our decision. Trump had been in office for less than a year, and we felt his presence, and that of his supporters, in a visceral way in the D.C. area. Everything and everyone felt on edge, and I didn't like the subtle changes I saw in the city I'd lived in for nearly seven years. Fleeing from the world, seeking mountains and quiet, felt right for us, even if it wasn't right for anyone else, or necessarily morally right in any sense.

The coronavirus outbreak has been a different kind of loneliness. I work from home and usually spend a lot of time alone anyway, but it is harder when your few regular outings are canceled. It was also a reminder that we were never as absent from the world and all of its troubles as we thought. The consequences of Trump's incompetence found us here, and germs can find anyone anywhere. We have already had positive test results for covid-19 in a county near mine, and, given how delayed and incomplete the testing has been, I'm sure it's already everywhere. That is our connection to Wuhan, China. What begins in a body there can threaten mine here, and the needs we'll face will be the same everywhere. Basic biology and basic humanity.

At the same time, with the rest of the world also in isolation now, I've found that others are slower to respond to my desperate emails seeking connection and attention and most of all reassurance. Editors, agents, other writers, are not in their offices. Are they at their computers? They have other pressing matters to attend to I imagine. I feel strangely left behind. "My book" has been the lodestar. It is ok to live in such a lonely, sad place, and dig up history I didn't particular enjoy digging up if I and maybe others get something out of it. I always felt that I had a contract that created a sense of security. Will a global pandemic, and concomitant recession, undermine that? It's hard to know for sure. The wider world intruded on mine, and was also not waiting for me to come back when I felt like it.

What I'm Writing:

I wrote about Bloomberg's brief rise for my old home, The American Prospect. Luckily, it's no longer relevant.

What I'm Reading:

I'm currently trying to limit my coronavirus news intake. Also, since I turned in a draft of my manuscript, I have been catching up on books. I read Evvie Drake Starts Over in a single day and it was a cozy delight, a book that is an actually good romantic comedy. I read Angle of Repose, which was unexpectedly depressing and is also partly about a man whose professional timing is always tragically off, which felt a little too on the nose for me right then. (Also, good chunks of it were plagiarized, but it's still worth reading.) I can't get over how good Fleishman is in Trouble was, even though I found it unexpectedly devastating—I finished the last two hundred pages in a fevered binge that lasted until 3 a.m. (It is a story about stories about people, although it and Angle of Repose are also kind of about the same things, from different perspectives and different eras. I keep thinking about them in conversation with each other, through time.) I did not expect to enjoy Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine, but it's a warm and caring book and is worth it just for that. I love mystery series and so I obviously love the Jane Harper books. Into the Planet, about a technical cave diver, is ok, but her work is so fascinating that reading about that makes up for its other faults. I told someone that I had just expelled a bunch of words in the form of a book, and so I felt like I needed to restock, to store up again, so I'll be reading a lot for awhile.

What I'm Recommending:

I don't think my mom has actually cooked in years, so the coronavirus social-distancing regime is going to be tough for her. She got a huge bag of potatoes and said, "If nothing else, I'll just fry up taters every night," and it took me back of childhood nights of a big cast iron skillet heating up on the stove, melting Crisco, and potatoes piled in and fried until they're one crisp mass of carbs. There is no good recipe for this. My mom sliced potatoes into fry-shapes, not discs, and put them in the hot oil (you can use oil or lard instead of shortening if you want your heart to continue beating) and didn't stir them until they were already crisp and released from the pan. By then they're mostly cooked. The bottoms are brown, the tops are a little mushy. The only requirement is tons of salt and pepper. They are good, in the way that all food from your childhood is good.

Cute Animal Pic of the Week:

One of the consequences of social distancing is that the transporters who take dogs out of the South to rescues farther north have stopped, at least for awhile. I snuck this girl, a border collie named Daisy, out just in time. She is being fostered for a border collie rescue in Tennessee and will probably be adopted by her fosters. Have a good life, Daisy.