Indoors in the Caribbean
I’ve decided that being a writer is a lot like being an actor. We have to imagine ourselves into the shoes of our characters, just like actors do. I suppose the differences are that we have to imagine ourselves as All our characters, and of course no one is looking at us, thank god. For example, I am writing about Mary Shelley in my bathing suit with my hair in a knot from swimming this morning. But hopefully when you read this section of the book you will not picture Charlotte in the Caribbean but Mary Shelley in Livorno. I’ve discovered there are many useful things about the Caribbean when writing about Italy, chiefly the heat and the sun. However, my own life has less useful details, ie, I am troubled that my son has come indoors. Shouldn’t he be splashing in the sea? or playing in the pool? Or snorkeling under the dock? But then, what kind of role model am I? I am not outside. Plus, Mary Shelley has just lost her three year old son to malaria. Probably instead of chastising the indoors boy, I should rush over and kiss him on the head.