Today: the shootings at the elementary school in Newtown, CT. Alone for the evening, I find I cannot write or do anything much more than hang out on Facebook trying to feel part of a larger community. I want to write a novel – meaning in this day and age that I want to “provide narrative content”- that somehow actively helps move the world (or at least my culture, which is American) away from that. At the moment I am writing a novel that is full of violence, so I can’t do that now, but when I’m done with it, I want to counteract what I’ve put out into the world… but with what? I don’t know what to say, I fear I lack the voice to say it so that it isn’t preachy or unoriginal or obvious. Why is it easier to make an interesting narrative out of violence than out of peace? You need conflict to have a resolution, but why must the resolution be reached by violence?

Over that 3+ weeks, different elements of yoga challenge me more or less, and I think there’s a parallel to what’s happening in my writing process. (I suspect this is applicable to any physical discipline). In the beginning, I was very confused about where I was going with my story; I felt horribly disoriented in my own imagination… and in yoga, any pose that turned me upside-down – that disoriented me in space – gave me an anxiety attack.

Now that I’ve got my outline sketched out, handstands are fun. But suddenly, any pose that holds my arms outstretched or overhead fatigues my muscles almost instantly. With the fatigue comes a plaintive little voice inside my head: “Oh, please, no, I don’t have the energy.”  I have the energy for a handstand, but not a handshake.  I was bemused by that until I realized: my little first-draft-obsessed brain registers my outstretched-arm gestures as if I were making them in the real world, not in a yoga class – as if I were waving people over to say, “Look, I’m free! Let’s dance and play!”

And my little first-draft-obsessed brain knows I am not free, and that this is no time to dance and play. This can be a time to root my feet, focus intensely on a single point just in front of me and seek balance; it can be a time to keep my center of gravity stable while I twist and bend in new directions, but not to dance and play.

Not yet. Maybe in tomorrow’s class…

But sometimes the balance of things gets extremely skewed. I’ll reach out casually to Relative D, for instance, who will not respond to me at all – but then  D will reach out to Relative E while they know E is visiting with me – as if E were not in the presence of someone whom they themselves are casually ignoring.

When I was younger this behavior – which feels to me like snubbing, although I realize it isn’t intended that way – would have devastated or infuriated me. It doesn’t any more, but it’s not pleasant, and there are no rules of engagement within our family for addressing these instances of disrespect or rudeness. Everyone has their own narrative in their own head. I’m sure that in the example above, D had an internal narrative in which it made perfect sense to disregard me while chummily hailing the person in my guest room. We don’t have the same internal story, and we have no rules of engagement for discussing our disconnect.

Which makes this a great opportunity to meditate on disengaging.

Sort of weird. But I think I know why.

The people who make up my social fabric tickle my attention often enough that I am aware of them in a certain way, and I try very hard not to take them for granted. Everyone else, however, is a piece of the universe. The universe isn’t supposed to change quickly enough for me to notice it. I’m supposed to be able to take it for granted. If one piece of the universe doesn’t cooperate, and disappears without notice, how do I know that won’t start happening with the rest of the universe?

When a loved one dies, I lose the loved one. When an acquaintance dies, I lose my reassurance in the universe’s cooperation.

For  years now I have felt nurtured by these layers of knowing. The dense constellations of such relationships in my life feeds my soul. But recently I have been wondering: does this keep me from staying in the present when I interact with someone? Is it possible I am more “present” with the new friend I just met last month, whose background I know only a little bit about, whose children I have never met, whose work I have never seen? Of course the relationship itself is not as established, but is it more present?

Is it possible that the person who only sees the Town Moderator as the Town Moderator has a purer, truer moment of knowing him as he is in this moment, while I am bogged down by 35-year-old memories that, far from being proof of familiarity, actually create a smokescreen that keep me from seeing him in 2012?

I often find it comforting to nestle into thoughts of relationships that have a history to them… but while I enjoy other people for what they added to my past, I myself only want to be appreciated for who I am right now. I don’t want to be held accountable to the memories maintained by the kid I used to babysit for (ok, there was no such person, but you know what I mean). I want to be appreciated for who I am right now, period – and yet I draw such succor from other people’s past identities.

As usual: I draw no conclusions from this. Just bringing it to the surface to see if it sparks for anyone else.

Until I got home. And then I started to revisit new friendships I had made, old alliances I had re-visited… and I found myself (temporarily) in hindsight anxious that I was unworthy of these wonderful, impressive people I’d encountered. Had this or that extraordinary person really considered me worthy of their good regard? Couldn’t be. Must have been the excitement of the day. I fooled them, but eventually, when they are snugly back in their own life (far more successful/comfortable/important than mine!) they’ll realize I am a sham.

That is, of course, ridiculous. It’s my own inner demons being given free rein. Those demons were paralyzed at the reunion, while I was interacting with real human beings, not their avatars that I was encountering online or in the Red Book. There is a tremendous difference between Facebook and face-time, and I have come perilously close to forgetting that.

We all resolved to stay in touch with each other. I hope we will. But I don’t want to stay in touch with people’s avatars, I want to stay in touch with THEY THEMSELVES – and that, I think, requires developing a set of social muscles that are atrophying in the 21st century. I’m not sure what to do about that. I titled this “Reunion Lesson,” not because I know the answer but because it’s time to work more deeply on addressing the question.

I shyly introduced myself to the attendant, who was delighted; he had me sign all the books in stock and then he placed them out at the front of the store. He also had me sign a book they keep behind the counter just for authors who come through. The whole experience was lovely.

I got on the plane. 2500 miles later, I got off the plane, and headed for the baggage check. I saw the airport bookstore. The moment I saw it, I winced with the realization that now I would always expect to find my book in an airport bookstore. Its absence would never again be neutral, but always negative. The moment that a wish was fulfilled, my psyche converted it from “Wouldn’t it be great?” to “Well, of COURSE” and immediately upped the stakes. If only I could get that ol’ ego in check, and be cheerfully indifferent to outcome, immune to expectation.

I’m not sure why this is true, but I’m pretty sure it always is. (Happy to hear exceptions!) When I “hang” a character on a Real-Life Super-Charismatic Person, the character tends to strike readers as annoying (just received notes on a new novel manuscript in which this was the case, but it’s not the first time I’ve had this experience). Even when I try to describe the escapades of a particularly charismatic friend, listeners will frequently give my storytelling a wide berth and wonder why I am so fond of this person.

On the other hand, the characters I find charismatic in books would probably irritate me enormously if I met them in real life. It is precisely because I don’t have to deal with them in any real way that I am free to have literary crushes on them. Mr. Darcy (I’m not talking Colin Firth, I’m talking Mr. Darcy) would strike me as insufferable. Francis Crawford of Lymond would probably nauseate me, although he’s my biggest literary crush.

The isn’t about how admirable or even lovable a character is – just how charming they are. Atticus Finch I would adore, and probably even Kilgore Trout. (Sydney Carton is a question mark.) But spare me from having to actually get on with Lancelot, Robin Hood, or even Peter Pan.

I have no idea why the Fiction/Reality Charisma Boundary is impermeable, but I can’t think of any exceptions. Can you?

When a novel is reviewed on a blog, readers post comments. Per my publisher’s request, I read them. It’s gratifying to hear that someone is a fan of my work; that’s a simple emotional response. But one review was followed by a reader’s comment (I’m paraphrasing) saying, “Oh, I read one of her books and liked it, but didn’t love it.” Boy, that stung! Someone did not utterly love my darlings as I did.

A couple of days later, a reader commented that she would check out I, Iago on the strength of the positive review, but that “I have read one of Galland’s other novels and really, really didn’t like it.” (She used some cyber-lingo I wasn’t familiar with that I assume was not affectionate.) For some strange reason, that didn’t sting at all – I was actually tickled by it. In a bizarre way, it made me feel powerful. I don’t know which novel it was, and why she didn’t like it, but it made a big impression on her… and that stung less than faint praise that was, in fact, praise.

I thought I wanted to be liked; what I really want is to be taken seriously. No idea what this means, what it says about my psyche. Wondering if anyone else has ever had a similar experience.