Sparking the imagination, as far as it goes

I’ve never been to Connecticut. In fact, I’ve never really thought much about Connecticut, until I leafed through the “New York Times Magazine” (architectural issue) and saw a very small photo of a home in the real estate ads in the back: “New Canaan, CT…beautiful center-halled colonial.”

Sometimes you see something that brings you up short and fills you with so much yearning that it’s hard to breathe. This white house sits above its reflection on the still mirror of a lake, surrounded by lush, Maxfield Parrish trees—mounds of leaves, boughs of flickering sun and deep shadow. The house looks older, and has a row of smallish vertical windows that I’ve always associated with indoor/outdoor porches. Included in the description are the magical words: “dock access”. I picture summer cookouts, fireflies, water skiing, umbrella drinks (do Connecticutians do umbrella drinks?) looking good in a swimsuit, and earnest, lovestruck swains. I can almost smell the mosquito repellent.

I’m a westerner. I love the vaulting sky, the desert, the big mountains. The lore of the west is ingrained deeply in me, and affects everything I see, say, and do, just as my Irish heritage does. I am a composite of my past, my parents’ past, my roots in both family and place.

I wouldn’t know what to do with Connecticut.

Connecticutians have their own traditions, rituals, outlook, dialect, and experience. In fact, they probably don’t even call themselves Connecticutians. They’re different from me, and I find this daunting, even though I know the human condition spans across all kinds of people around the world.

Yet the picture sits here at my elbow, haunting me with its beauty. Who lives there? Whoever it is, he/she must be wealthy. How could anyone keep a house like that up, unless he’s rolling in it? Can’t I find some way to put it in a book? Move it to another place other than Connecticut? I’ve been to Wisconsin. I’ve been to New Zealand. New Zealand, I can do.

I know there are authors who can easily write about places they’ve never seen. I myself can imagine what it’s like to kill someone, and have written such scenes more than a few times. So why can’t I set something in Connecticut?

It’s hard to admit that I suffer from a decided lack of imagination. It must be a glitch in my personality. Some little voice telling me, “No, you can’t do that.”

For me, “the surly bonds of earth” aren’t just words in a poem.

My writing—-and my thinking—have always been deeply rooted in reality. No fair taking shortcuts. No fair making things up—in a profession where all you do is make things up!

I’ve decided to write something about this house and see where it takes me. Not exactly a profile in courage, but hey, you’ve got to start somewhere.