Fela! and lists
We went to New York this weekend and it is hard to be back in Gloucester. I remember how my father used to complain that there were no good bagels in St. louis, and now I feel the same way about Cape Ann. Which is of course a metaphor that I don’t have the energy to explore right now as I had a bracing breakfast with my beloved agent who talked in a chastening fashion about late manuscripts and publishers canceling books. So last night I resolved to outline this last bit about Mary Wollstonecraft, from her lover’s desertion to her death, giving birth. Let’s see if this will speed me up. I’ve never used an outline in my life. Actually my “outline” is only a list, like a grocery list, as the very word outline gives me hives. How will I finish this by August? (I won’t)
On Saturday, we went to see Fela on broadway. It’s the story of the Nigerian man who used music to protest corruption and who began afro-beat. He died of Aids in 1977. The cast was young and beautiful and danced and danced and sang. I was inspired and thought this is how one should live life. with meaning. with passion. I thought of me at my writing desk, drudging away, chomping on pretzels, and I realized I should be up, standing up, leading protest marches, and fighting evil and authorities, and staying up all night, writing inflammatory and incendiary things, and breaking way more rules. But I am back munching on pretzels, actually cheerios, and making lists. But I like to think that some of that Fela fire will go right into MW’s life.