The Story of My Novel
When I began to write my novel, I had a theme in mind: the universal, routine violence suffered by women. The seed of this tale is a true story of the rape and murder of a mother of three on a trail near the one on which I walked every day. I had just moved from what then was the murder capital of the world, Washington, DC, and had chosen Walnut Creek for its small-town simplicity and peace. Yet, almost immediately this terrible crime happened. There were press reports of how the victim was talking on her cell phone to her husband when her assailant appeared, of how vivacious and loved she had been. The murderer eventually was found, tried and given the death penalty. A kind of closure.
But not for me. Her story stayed with me, nagged at me.
On the day I began writing my novel, I had walked to our downtown Farmer’s Market and noted the absence of the usual Sunday crowd of joggers along the trail, no ball games on surrounding grassy areas, no bikes whizzing by. And then realized: it was Super Bowl Sunday; everyone was huddled around TVs, noshing and yelling. I felt a chill as a ragged man stepped out of a glade behind a patch of tangled shrubbery, remembering the lovely young woman killed a few years earlier, and quickened my pace.
At the Farmer’s Market, I selected my fruit and vegetables, then decided to avoid the trail for my walk home. Where a horrid tale began to pour into my computer—it had been waiting for the right moment to emerge, a moment when my business had slowed, when I had time to attempt my lifelong dream of writing a novel. I typed a title, “Brenda Corrigan Went Downtown.” I described a lively 60-year-old woman walking on a lonely trail to the downtown Farmer’s Market, intending to purchase ingredients for an “un-Super Bowl” dinner party. I imagined her valiant effort to deter a vicious attack by a man who appeared from nowhere, who raped and maimed her and left her for dead.
But she doesn’t die and what develops is the story of this spirited woman, of her brave, warm friends, of familial relationships that are loving and quarrelsome. A tale of doctors, foolish and wise, who keep her alive, of resilience and hope, of despair and reconciliation. A tale of chance, for she could have taken her car that day, could have avoided the lonely trail, had she realized it would be deserted on Super Bowl Sunday.
I suffered during years of writing and rewriting, as Brenda fought to recover, as her life unfolded. I loved my new companion. She embodied my young mother who had recovered from painful, debilitating surgery only to succumb to brain cancer three years later. She was so like dear friends who fought similar battles.
I suffered, but couldn’t give her up. With each reading, this old editor would discover a misplaced semi-colon, a dangling participle (God forbid). I did endless searches to ensure that words like ‘gray’ and ‘grey’ were always ‘gray.’ I tripped over my many characters’ names and attributes, discovering that Brenda’s son was sometimes ‘Jeff,’ sometimes ‘Jack,’ then created bios for each with subtext, a tool I used as a playwright.
And then, on Super Bowl Sunday 2013, while doing one more “final proof,” I was struck by this passage:
There’s a big adjustment ahead, thought Brenda. My children and I will have to free each other again.
I realized I had to let go. My characters had lived in my imagination for four years. Now they wanted out. The story was finished.
Having received no replies from the dozens of agents I queried, I uploaded my document to the self-publishing arm of amazon.com—I was too old, did not have years enough ahead, to pursue traditional avenues. I asked a graphic designer I’d worked with in Washington to create the cover illustration, knowing that she would portray the essence of my girl. And voila! my book was alive, stacked on my office shelves, its digital counterpart on my kindle.
I hauled out my marketing skills, sent a Constant Contact letter to several lists, developed a website, posted the news on Facebook so often that old friends probably wanted to un-friend me.
Orinda Books hosted a launch party, local papers interviewed me, a church dubbed me their ‘Author of the Year” and hosted a discussion group. Synagogues and book clubs invited me to speak and sign.
Soon, I was punchy from the attention, from losing my way on serpentine back roads as I searched for each venue. And from managing reader response—revelations of rape, heated debates on the ethics of Brenda’s decision to live well or not at all. I wasn’t equipped to handle these discussions and longed for a therapist or minister to moderate.
Some readers were disappointed that an interlude with Charley, an old lover, did not lead Brenda to eternal bliss. They wanted a sequel, impossible given her sad end. One suggested that her daughter, Lynn, could find Mr. Right and all would be swell in sweet Walnut Creek. I gave it a try, imagining Charley and Lynn and a chance meeting in Santorini, but that didn’t go well.
There were good moments, too. One book club felt like a safe haven—these women had shared life’s joys and sorrows for 25 years and vividly connected with Brenda and her close friends. And I liked waking to emails from readers stating they could not put the book down, or they’d just sent it to their aunt in Poughkeepsie or a sister in London.
But mostly the conversations exhausted me, the opinions, the rugalach (yes, rugalach; my character Rose bakes rugalach, so I brought apricot and chocolate to each event, baked by Sunrise Deli).
I grew tired of people calling me Brenda, of confusing fiction with autobiography, and wrote a witty post for my blog called, “I’m Not Brenda,” to no avail. Strangers bombarding me with photos of past boyfriends and tales of illicit love, sharing their regrets and sorrows, made me want to post “I’m Not Your Shrink,” but I didn’t.
“Oy. Enough already,” my weary brain whimpered as I snaked down an unfamiliar foggy road one night. I needed to get back to my own life. I had a business, a monthly deadline to meet. There was fun to be had. The next morning, I canceled future engagements and returned to LBB—life before Brenda—happily scribbling snippets and stories for the joy of it. I had no desire ever to publish again.
When I began to write my novel, I intended to portray an example of the universal, routine violence suffered by women. I did that, but a novel meanders, refuses to adhere to a planned route. My polemic became a life story, which is always more than one thing. And which holds innumerable meanings for its readers.
“The Story of My Novel” appeared in the Spring 2023 issue of Vistas & Byways.
The Past Holds Sway
Thinking about my novel, Brenda Corrigan Went Downtown.
I began the writing on February 1, 2009, prompted by a walk on the trail near my home and finding it devoid of the usual rambunctious Sunday afternoon activity. Having lived through 9/11 in Washington, DC, I felt a sense of foreboding.
As does Brenda, when she comes upon:
. . . a nearby field where dogs usually romped off-leash, bounding after Frisbees, barking wildly, ecstatic to run free, then saw it was empty. Where was everybody? She felt disoriented now. Where were the walkers, the bikers who usually swarmed over the trail on a Sunday? Had something terrible happened? A terrorist attack?
Then she remembered. The Super Bowl. The whole world was nestled on couches, watching warm-ups and wrap-ups, stuffing itself with nachos and salsa. And here she was, alone . . . .
I’d been noodling an idea for a novel for a few years. I thought it would be interesting to imagine the life of someone who had been subjected to childhood abuse. Calamitous childhoods are so much more common than we like to think, but often are well hidden. Most people vigorously put an unpleasant past behind them, never realizing how much energy this fruitless task consumes. For the truth will find its way to freedom— through pores, temper, an inability to cope with life’s vicissitudes, post-traumatic stress syndrome.
Brenda is a determined woman. She has overcome her roots, she believes, the facts of her foundation. She would not consider herself one of the walking wounded, that she is owed something. If she were to think about the past at all, it would be with a sense of victory. She lives in the present, enjoying her days to the fullest among family and friends, partaking of all that life has to offer.
Until she is struck down with unimaginable force. Then the past holds sway. Her hard will bends to dreams and nightmares, memories, and she is steered away from recovery.
The Story Teller
“How come there are no pictures on the walls, no photos?” asked my first date. “Did you just move in?”
I lo
oked around with alarm, embarrassed. . . .
Did I tell him there was little disposable income in our household for art and frames? That my mother was often depressed and had no interest in home decor? That my father held maximal frugality in high esteem?
No. Those stark white walls, that blank slate, took hold of my imagination and I said YES, we had just moved in.
But the next morning I called my friend Rosie Greene, whose house was beautiful, full of paintings and photos, whose mother treated me to plays and concerts, plied me with books I had to read.
“Rosie, can you and your mom help me? I need to buy pictures to hang in my living room.”
My plea was Mrs. Greene’s command. Within an hour we were in a shop where canvasses were strewn upon tables, stacked in bins.
“Now look at this, girls.” Rosie and I stared, dumbfounded, at a rectangle covered with triangles, a floating eye. Was that an arm???
Noting our disdain, Mrs. Greene tossed that print aside and reached for a cacophony of squiggles. We groaned.
“GIRLS — you have to broaden your horizons. Modern art is all the rage!”
Not for this girl. I was drawn to a wall of gilded frames. Elegant women gazing serenely from posh velvet chairs. Dashing caballeros riding Arabian steeds.
New worlds opened before me. Each painting told a tale.
“Bathsheba at Her Bath,” Rembrandt, said a tiny plaque, below the heroine of my favorite Bible 
story. I had always felt sorry for her. Plucked from her husband, by mighty King David, like ripe fruit from a tree. How could a great poet, composer of the Psalms, have such wickedness in his heart?
“No, no, no. That won’t do, dear,” said Mrs. Greene, steering me away from voluptuous, lost Bathsheba.
“Let’s choose something less . . . imposing.”
She redirected my attention to tangled red roofs and chimney pots, rosy-cheeked babies, a field glowing in bright sun.
Yes. This time, Mrs. Greene was right. These indeed were more appropriate for my cramped rowhouse walls.
I bought the prints with my saved-up baby-sitting money, and in years to come would feel a thrill each time I saw these old friends in the world’s great museums. I would come to know their makers well: Renoir, Cassatt, Cezanne.
My sweet Mom watched as we transformed her living room, a rare smile on her lovely face. Within a few years, she would be gone. Brain cancer. But that is a story for another time.
She offered us a dusty shoe box filled with old photographs and we culled the best from the stack — my little sisters and I dressed in identical taffeta dresses, my grandparents, a shot of my Mom and Dad at the Philadelphia Navy Yard, where they met during the War.
Rosie and I hammered together frames. I cut a picture of Rock Hudson from a Photoplay magazine — he was my heart throb of the moment — and framed that, too. His teeth sparkled as if this were an ad for Ipana to
othpaste.
“Who’s that?” asked my beau on our second date. “Your brother?”
“Yes,” I answered, fingers crossed. “He lives in California.”
Among the many things we did together
On the death of my dear friend Carol Parsons . . . 9/7/13
We worked all day at jobs we loved, then rushed home to grab a bite, change into jeans and get to the movie theater on time. For we were part of a group of Washingtonians who previewed films scheduled to open that weekend. Waiting in line, we’d hash over the day’s challenges, chat with others and speculate about the indie or soon-to-be blockbuster we were about to view.
Carol generously invited me to countless gala openings at the Hirshhorn Museum, where she worked. I met Chuck Close! I enjoyed private viewings of works by Ed Ruscha, Clyfford Still, Brice Marden, Kiki Smith, Cindy Sherman, George Segal — the list goes on and on.
On one Saturday each month we lunched. We called our group “Ladies Who Lunch”—a little homage to Sondheim and Stritch—and took turns choosing a restaurant. I have a photo of Carol, Ros Kaiser, Diane Munro and Julia Su happily smiling for my camera. Ros passed away in April; she was one of Carol’s oldest and dearest friends.
In late 2002, I moved to California because I was about to have a grandchild there. Until then, Carol kindly shared her grandchildren with me. We called purple ‘pupple,’ because that is how little Sophie said her favorite color. We wiggled our hips and sang Madonna songs like Madeline. After my grandson was born, Carol and I talked on the phone almost weekly about his progress, about Luke and Will and the girls, and 10 years passed and they were all so grown up, but we still giggled over ‘pupple.’
Several times a day I smile to see a colorful mug on my kitchen shelf, hand-painted with images of adorable girls. Carol saw me admiring it at an exhibit of work by one of her many creative friends and surprised me with it that Christmas. After I left Washington, it became an important memento of our long friendship. With Carol gone, it will mean more to me than words can say.