The writer, Lee Howard, no relation to my husband, wrote a wonderful article about my participation in the WWI Memorial as a model in the relief. Howard is a skilled writer and the piece is lovely–warmly written and respectful. He quoted me correctly. He portrayed me with both kindness and some playfulness.
I particularly liked that he quoted what I said about appearing in Sabin’s amazing relief:
“All told, it’s pretty cool,” she said. “Perhaps (someday) one of my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandchildren will stand in front of the relief and look at my face and feel our connection.”
Day 4: Letter to a friend
The light at this time of year stretches seductively far into the evening—even at 9:30 or 10, a honeyed lucence falls on everything—it leaves me drunk with wakefulness, my nerve endings silkily keyed up, and wrestling around on the bed, unable to sleep. Then I wake too late in the morning and scold myself for getting to work haphazardly. Unrepentant I.
Today I went to the Musee Jean Moulin, where I learned anew how important propaganda was during WW2. Now we have pedestrian advertising, but then both sides, Allies and Axis, sought to gain entrance into hearts and minds. And did you realize how many French were conscripted to work in Germany, to feed the industrial war machine?
When I returned home, Mme Durand waited at my door. Had she been inside my apartment? Weirdest feeling, like octopus tentacles writhing, that she had! Her stern face gave away nothing. She said, “I have too much pain today with my hip.”
“I used to be a healer, shall I try to help you?” I asked, holding up my hands, palms out.
She muttered something in French which I translated into a directive ordering me to keep my *!@# * hands to myself. She thrust a brown-paper-wrapped package at me. “You will take this to the Gare du Nord and deliver it to Francois at 4:00. Do not be late.” Then she bustled into her apartment and slammed the door before I could query her further. Who is Francois, and how will I find him?
I took the package inside and examined it without opening it. Darned if it wasn’t the package given to Mme Durand by the argumentative couple. To my inquisitive fingertips, it felt like a painting in an elaborately carved frame. I must confess—I took the painting to the window and checked out the tape that sealed the edges—Wanted to know if I’d be able to unwrap and rewrap. Curiosity etc. But the tape was firmly applied. I couldn’t get inside undetected, and the coy light through the paper revealed only the indistinct ridges of a frame.
Jean-Sven heard me leaving at 3:30 and rushed down to inform me that he was taking me to dinner. Angelique has a gig and she’s rehearsing today. “Wear something sexy,” he said, his blue eyes smiling.
“By sexy, you mean clean?” I clarified. I’ve been writing a lot, so I’m usually in stinky yoga togs, and throw on whatever’s at hand to go out. This is my writing space; personal grooming is, while not exactly optional, certainly pared down to a minimum.
Jean-Sven gave me a look of pure exasperation. You’d have to be half French and half Swede to look that disgusted. “A dress, one that is superbe,” he commanded. So I am glad that the Wayward Countess advised me to pack the long red silk sheath. “One never knows,” she said. Indeed.
I arrived at the Gare du Nord promptly at 4:00—you remarked once that I was extraordinarily punctual, it’s an old, bad habit of mine—I wasn’t there for two minutes when a man bumped into me. He murmured something in Hebrew and took the package. He winked and vanished into the crowd. I was left standing with my mouth agape. I hope that was Francois!
On the way home I wandered into the Luxembourg Gardens, and an exquisite, soul-ravishing Chagall show. His works were burned by Nazis and shown in their “Degenerate art” show.
Now I’m sitting at my little desk, gussied up enough to please even the most exacting Franco-Swede. I’m posting my latest missive and waiting for Jean-Sven, whom I shall remind about my marital status. You are probably entirely unaware of these notes, which come to you so fondly and so gratefully for your part in this. If you even care; you are so very well defended, and have forgotten that we are not all that way. Some of us are open. Well, til tomorrow, with my warmest thoughts.
The Benefits of Radical Anarchy: Enjoying Family Dinners
My blogs of late have emphasized my dissatisfaction with some thoroughly corrupt institutions in our lives: government and big business. Radical anarchy may be the only solution. And radical anarchy has so many applications. Once you get in the hang of it, it’s a useful approach to so very many situations. All this time I’ve considered myself a one woman stand against entropy. Maybe it’s time to rethink that.
Like family dinners. Getting all 4 of my daughters to sit down to a meal with my husband and me is like herding feral cats. Two are in college and are often in their distant cities. Even when they’re around, this one is working, that one has dinner with the other parent, the other one has two parties and, like, six best friends who demand to see her!
There are always the emotional undercurrents of getting a bunch of women together, who’s mad at whom and why. There’s the emphasis on relationships, makeup, hot guys, relationships, clothes, and hot guys. Did I mention there’s a lot of discussion about relationships and hot guys?
It’s not like we don’t talk about other things as well. Books, movies, TV shows, politics, and the current topics in their majors, neurobiology and sociology. But sooner or later…
“Do you think I should cut my hair real short and wear a lot of eye make-up?” one daughter asks.
“Do you think I should get an apartment with my boyfriend this summer?” asks another daughter.
“Do you think it’s okay to date a guy if I’ve already dated his best friend slash roommate?” asks the third. “Does it matter if the guy I dumped is stalking me now?”
“Can I paint my fingernails and get a dress like Mary had on at the Christmas party?” asks the little one.
“Oh my god, it’s an estrogen-fest,” my husband Sabin moans.
Then the dog barfs on the floor after eating someone’s purse, and the 5 year old breaks a glass and turns off all the lights in the house. The Christmas tree falls over, disgorging its lights, and all the iPhones in the house beep with simultaneous texts. The middle daughter chooses that moment to explain exactly why her boyfriend should be so much more grateful and appreciative to be dating her than he is–all while she in-boxes three guys she’s keeping on the hook for later, maybe. Sabin stabs himself in the knuckles with a fork just to distract himself.
And if you are in the mental state to enjoy radical anarchy: it is a rich feast for whimsy.
Here are two three recent beautiful reviews of BROKEN, my historical novel set in occupied Paris.
This morning the lively Underground Book Reviews site posted Katie Rose Guest Pryal‘s review of BROKEN. The review snippet on the front page of the site said, “This book is beautifully written. The history is magnificent….”
What really thrilled me was Ms. Guest Pryal’s comment within the review: “Throughout it all, the author manages some truly gorgeous turns of phrase. In explaining why she can speak any language with perfect precision and accent, Alia refers in this fashion to her former ethereal status: “I am exempt from Babel.”
As a storyteller, I prioritize Story. Story must come first in a novel (or screenplay). As a writer, however, I am warmed in the deepest cockles of my soul when I hear my prose praised. These good words are especially appreciated because Katie Rose Guest Pryal is herself an author; she even writes books about writing. ! She is an educated consumer. So her statement about “truly gorgeous turns of phrase” simply ravishes me.
OneBookTwo Review Blog also recently posted a lovely review of BROKEN, starting off by saying “This is a fantastic book of love and light.”
Fickle Fiona went on to say,
Traci Slatton does a fantastic job of recreating Paris 1939 – 1942 with the fear and torture of occupied France…
To be honest there was nothing about this book that I didn’t like. It flows beautifully and it is one of those books that stays with you even after you are done reading it. For this reason I give this book five stars! I will reread this book more than once and recommend it to all my friends and, readers; I highly recommend it to you too.
To hear that my book will be recommended and re-read is a special joy and pride for an author.
These two reviews exemplify the kind of review that delights, thrills, humbles, and inspires me!
I had to edit this post after publishing it because another wonderful review of BROKEN came in today from HighlightingtheMind Blog. Sarah Oliverson wrote,
This book did exactly what it was supposed to and it left me breathless. I say this because this was one historical fiction that sucked me in throughout the book. As she spun this historical fiction in Paris, starting in 1939, she made it possible to walk side by side with the main character Alia A. K. Mercier. These are the type of books that grab my attention, she nailed it.
When reading I find it rare that a writer holds my attention through the book. When I have a book that my nose is glued to and my eyes don’t stop moving until the pages run out, I keep that author in my favorites stash. Because of how well this book was written and the historical significance this book holds, I give this book a 5 out of 5.
How cool is that???!!! Maybe I should go buy a Powerball ticket?
My husband and I had a rude and rough couple of years.
Sabin was briefly ensconced at the antipodes with people who thought they knew him better after 12 minutes than I did after 18 years, and they brought out his worst self. They encouraged him to forget his family–to lose sight of his integrity. I frittered away our months apart with people and pastimes that took me away from my mission in life. I wasn’t my best self, either.
Love brought us back together and our union needed repair.
There were tools that aided us. I’ve blogged about those before. I read several books and used an excellent program developed by a California-based marriage counselor.
In particular, and with some mirth because he’s funny, we watched videos of Dr. John Gottman talking about what makes a marriage work. I bought Gottman’s books and googled The Gottman Institute.
After one fierce fight that ended with me in tears and Sabin apoplectic with hurt and anger, I said, “Enough. We’re going to a Gottman workshop.”
Sabin agreed, if skeptically. He was more amenable when I assured him that there was no public disclosure.
The time came and we flew to Seattle a few days early so we could hike Mt. Rainier. I figured two days of exercise on the mountain would exorcise Sabin’s physical restlessness.
We arrived early at the Seattle Sheraton on the morning of the workshop to secure good seats, close to the front. And there began two days of extraordinary learning.
The first day focused on building the ground of being of love through Drs. John and Julie Gottman’s research-based techniques. We listened to lectures on love maps, fondness and admiration, and bids for connection, and then we practiced the skills through carefully thought out exercises. The exercises were good fun as well as good practicum for a marriage. They deepened the friendship, connection, and trust that are so essential in the union.
It was fun to tell Sabin all the good things I think about him–and even more fun to hear him describe my strengths!
We also practiced a “stress reducing conversation” according to a Gottman script. It was an effective tool. When Sabin spoke about the stresses of his life, he was able to feel my empathy; when it was my turn to confide, I felt his empathy. We finished the exercise feeling heard and cared for. Our hearts opened and we felt close to each other.
But it wasn’t just the exercises and lectures that taught us and moved us. Equally eloquent was the way John and Julie Gottman related to each other. They were at turns playful and somber and they were always palpably connected. They teased each other, finished each other’s sentences, demoed exercises together with zest and relish, touched each other affectionately, listened respectfully when the other was saying something of heightened import, admitted to fighting, owned their own parts in their conflict, apologized for hurting each other, and praised the other.
Julie and John were modeling something critical: a real marriage, hugs and warts and tears and laughs and all. A marriage wherein both spouses are deeply committed and deeply engaged in the ongoing work of building a strong and joyful shared sense of “we.”
This was most evident the second day of the workshop, when the Gottmans addressed conflict.
Around 10 am of the second day, I witnessed one of the most profound human interactions I’ve ever seen–and I attended a 4 years hands-on healing school which included a great deal of deep personal process work. But this was astonishing: Julie and John demonstrated their script for repair after a regrettable incident.
I’ve never seen two people be more real, more vulnerable, more honest, and more sensitive with each other. It was deeply soulful. It showed the power of being real, being vulnerable, being honest, and being sensitive with your mate.
Julie and John worked through an actual fight from a few years earlier, following one of the scripts they’d written. Julie dissolved into tears, remembering early life traumas that had played a part in her responses. I was in tears watching her. With candor and grace, John also talked about his triggers. I marveled at his insight into himself.
The goal was to understand each other better. It achieved that and so much more. It was a marvelous process.
In class, Sabin and I did the exercise around a recent fight. Since returning home, we’ve done the exercise around the painful episodes from the last two years.
The Gottman Institute weekend ended with presentations and exercises around shared meaning and helping each other attain life dreams. In a real way, Sabin and I are already strong in that area, because we both feel so strongly about arts and letters. He’s been the strongest supporter of my writing, and I’ve always supported his art.
For me, the best part of the weekend was being in the field of the relationship between Julie and John Gottman. So that’s what a good relationship is, I thought. Perhaps the Gottman tools could even have helped my difficult first marriage. It’s possible. It’s for certain they’re a great blessing for Sabin and me.
In his thoughtful way, Sabin voiced the most beautiful, most telling comment about the weekend. “I never before understood about the sacredness of marriage,” he told me. “Now I do.”
The good folks at Bertrand Brasil sent me the cover to their forthcoming edition of IMMORTAL. “It was based on a painting of Leonardo da Vinci called ‘The Savior.’ We wait for your appreciation,” wrote the Brazilian editor.
I do appreciate! This cover is gorgeous, and I am grateful. IMMORTAL has been blessed with beautiful covers all over the world, starting with the US cover. My appreciation overflows!
There’s a chilling moment in The Talented Mr. Ripley movie when wealthy Meredith Logue says, “The truth is, if you’ve had money your entire life, even if you despise it, which we do–agreed?–you’re only truly comfortable around other people who have it and despise it.”
I thought of this quote today at lunch, but not because of wealth. It came to me in the broader sense of similarity and common elements in life, and how we feel most comfortable around people who have undergone similar life-defining experiences.
I met one of my loveliest, most precious friends at our usual spot. We shared and laughed and joked and commiserated and exclaimed on each other’s behalf, as always. Then there were things we said to each other because we could. We both had shitty childhoods and we both have heart-wrenchingly difficult grown kids and we both are exceedingly well educated and we both love BOOKS and writing. Oh, and she has Native American blood, too, same as me.
I looked across the table at her sweet, intelligent face and thought how lucky I am to have her in my life.
There are things I can only say to her, things confided in her alone of all people ever in my life, things I’ve never told husbands or shrinks or other friends. This is so because she has endured things that I have, happenings and feelings that cut deep into the innermost sanctum of the soul. So my friend gets it. She knows what it means to survive and then to heal, and then to go on and lead a rich and imperfect life brimming with love and progress and hurt and joy and tears and laughter and gratitude.
There are other friends with whom I share common bonds. I have two friends who lived military lives, and that’s a specific, defining thing, too. There’s us, and there are civilians. So it’s always a relief to be in the company of my military friends. We understand the tacit assumptions that govern life in the military and we don’t have to explain that particular ground of being to each other. We just know.
I have friends whose lives have been vastly different from mine, and I prize those friends, too. It’s fun to meet and grow close to all sorts–especially for a novelist, who is always looking for characters for her stories. One of the great privileges of being an author married to a famous artist is that we’ve sat down to dinner with billionaires and with broke XXX-movie star underwear models and with everyone in between. Artists travel freely among social castes and classes, which is delicious.
The first time I married, it was into a family whose expectations and understandings of life couldn’t have been further removed from what I grew up with. I raised my older daughters in that culture, and I did so with some success. To this day, it remains one of the sweetest victories of my life that my former Grandfather-in-law, my former mother-in-law’s father, said to me, “Thank you for raising your children Jewish, Traci. I know that wasn’t natural for you, but you’re doing it well.”
I’m paraphrasing because this conversation happened so long ago, many years ago, before this extraordinary and brilliant man died. He was someone with a fascinating life story of his own, and it thrilled me that he understood, he got it, that I had pierced the boundaries of otherness in service to his family and his grandson. I relished my conversations with him even before he thanked me, but after, I felt a special sense of gratitude toward him. He had seen me and he had acknowledged me.
The temptation is to judge Meredith Logue for her exclusivity, for only embracing other filthy rich people with her genuine, authentic self. But I think that’s too easy. We all go to that place of feeling safest and truest with folks who belong to the same ethnic group or socio-economic category or minority or whatever. We can easily get entrenched in our specifics–that’s a universal experience. It’s when we can hold both our specifics and our universals simultaneously that we transcend our limitations.
So the picture for this blogpost? My husband and daughter laughing at The Three Stooges. Larry, Moe and Curly’s humor has to be one of the most universal experiences going.
