Four Love Letters

A collage.

Greetings new readers and those of you I can pick out in a crowd!

I don’t usually make a pitch at the beginning of a post. Today, I need to.

This stack is part of a new way of creating and distributing literary writing. Last week Literary Hub named it one of the seven best literary publication on Substack. It’s entering its third year. I don’t have a paywall and plan never to install one as a means of attracting paid subscribers. It’s up to you to sustain Everything is Personal. It can only continue with paid support.

If you have been enjoying the writing for a while, I hope this is a time you can add your support. It can be as little as $3.75, the cost of a one-month paid subscription. You can chip in and unsubscribe from payment at any time.

The subscription model is brilliant—a means of crowd sourcing on a rotating basis. It means you need to take a turn as some people who’ve supported the stack move their resources elsewhere. There are additional perks for paid subscribers I’ll remind you of later.

HUGE THANKS TO EVERYONE WHO HAS RENEWED THEIR SUBSCRIPTIONS. I’M AWARE OF EACH OF YOU. CAN YOU FEEL MY EMBRACE?

Four Love Letters

Films about war are about the wars to come. When you return to a friendship, you feel remnants of the old familiarity and a sense of starting, free of the past. Pleasure is independent of history. In the domain of politics, language is an edible, or a memory that didn't happen, or nostalgia, or a movie with a spooky intruder everyone invites in. On the subway the other day, a woman across from Richard and me was applying huge false eyelashes. She blinked, and I smiled at her, and she smiled back, and I said, “How do you get them to stick?” She said, “Glue. I had already applied it.” I said, “You look great.” She was wearing a magenta wig. She looked like a drag queen. It was her look. Richard said, “You are the only person here speaking to a stranger.” I said, “Once you enter a subway car, no one is a stranger and everyone is allowed to speak to everyone else.” He said, “No, they’re not.” It was a draw.

Five years ago, during our first week in the house, I got up at four am and thought life was good. I went down to the basement and afterward cooked a pot roast. In the basement, I mixed a shade of azure blue and painted the face of the boiler that was streaked and rusted and covered with carbuncles and now isn't. Richard got up and sawed a piece of wood we found in the rafters of the garage into scaffolding for the grotto entrance I’m building between basement number one and basement number two. The former tenants had taken a sledgehammer to the dividing wall and left a gaping mouth with broken teeth. I mopped the floor of basement number two with Pine Sol. Richard ate the pot roast for lunch and wanted it for dinner too. I ate chocolate bread. Richard schlepped cartoons of books down to the basement. I can't understand how he can be so strong for such a slight, wiry person. It could be the pot roast.

Ruth Wilson as Jane Eyre.

Recently, we watched a version of Jane Eyre, starring Ruth Wilson as Jane. Charlotte Brontë’s Jane is plain, small and frumpy, just like Charlotte was. I liked watching Ruth Wilson’s upper lip. I liked the water-slide arch of her brows. Wilson is sex that doesn’t understand why it’s sex and has given up trying to figure out. It was fun seeing Charlotte’s story of a plain woman capturing love and social standing by remaining true to her beliefs subverted by a beautiful woman in an awful hairdo and boring clothes flirting with the very good-looking Toby Stephens as Rochester, all the while speaking Charlotte’s dialogue. Years ago, the time Richard and I went to Haworth, he had a cold, just like all the  Brontës did morning noon and night. We walked on the moors and played with the sheep of Yorkshire. Richard has the accent down perfect unless you ask him to do it.

In Amsterdam, some years later, he said, “Why do you post pictures of our trip?” I said, “I enjoy it.” He said, “Does anyone care?” I said, “No one cares about the fun we are having.” He said, “That Porsche is going the wrong way on a one-way street. It just pulled into the garage that charges 60 euros a day.” I said, “Banksy doesn’t hold up compared to Basquiat and Keith Haring, even the things he created to be exhibited in a gallery space.” Richard said, “My sister told me my father had seen Dachau during the war. I wonder why I don’t remember him telling me about it. Maybe I was too young when I heard the word Dachau.” I said, “People here smile easily and push you aside on the streets.” Richard said, “I can’t eat any more of this cake until we walk.” I said, “Walking up to our rooms is like climbing a mountain.” He said, “Val was supposed to tell me what my father said to her, but we didn’t get the chance. I wonder why I care so much about his experience in concentration camps.” I said, “You’ve spent a lot of your life around Jews.” He said, “Do you think I did it on purpose?” I said, “People have feelings about Jews as a thing apart from specific Jews.” He said, “I want to find that outdoor market we went to yesterday. They had old books.” I said, “You don’t feel the presence of police here or other uniformed workers. People know how to behave. It’s a clock that runs by itself.” Richard said, “Everyone here speaks English. Even children speak English grammatically.” I said, “Bob Dylan is a deeply creative artist.” Richard said, “I think seeing concentration camps changed my dad’s life forever.” I said, “Do you think the mouse will come back to our room tonight?” He said, “When Joni Mitchell sings ‘Coyote’, she makes it sound like she’s driving. It sounds like the thoughts you have while driving a car.” I said, “When Joan Baez says to Bob Dylan, ‘Do you like my dress?’ he ignores her.”  Richard said, “I’ll put a towel under the door so the mouse doesn’t get back in.” I said, “As a person, Dylan is a zero. He has no personality. He’s only alive when he’s on stage and he doesn’t have to give anything personal to anyone.” Richard said, “Watch out for that bike! You really have to look before you cross.”

ZOOM Conversations for Paid Subscribers.

The next Zoom Conversation is Saturday September 14, from 3 to 4 EST. To RSVP, please write to: lauriestone@substack.com.

I hold back nothing at the Zooms about the craft of creative writing. It’s not magic, and you don’t need inspiration. I help people gain freedom to speak and write with joy. You are encouraged to send ahead questions about your own writing practice and the content and forms of the posts. Interested in writing in a collage style like today’s post? Let’s unwrap the methods. How do you know what to keep? How do you decide how to order the parts?

Paid subscribers can also write to me for a recording of the last Zoom on August 24.

Haworth

Working together one-on-one for Paid Subscribers.

If you are a paid subscriber and would like to work with me on a one-to-one basis, please email me at: lauriestone@substack.com. The first conversation is free for paid subscribers to establish whether we might be a good fit.

I can also help you start and grow a Substack publication (for an hourly fee).

There are three links at the bottom of every post: “like,” “share,” and “comment.” Your responses attract new readers, and I love hearing your thoughts about the posts. Huge thanks and happy more summer.