Ellen Meeropol

During the Q&A after a reading last night (thank you, Storrs Library) a woman asked what influence my nursing career had on my writing (I worked for almost 30 years as a nurse and pediatric nurse practitioner). I didn’t have a good reply; I had never thought about it. I answered something about my first novel being about medical/nursing ethics, but beyond that I floundered, saying something general about seeing the world through a nurse’s eyes. I knew there was more, but couldn’t put my finger on it.

This morning, on the treadmill (where I do some of my best thinking), I realized that for me, being a nurse was an odd mixture of empathy and nosiness. In nursing school I was taught that one aspect of my job was to help my patients accomplish the things they wanted done but couldn’t do alone, respecting their individual, cultural and spiritual beliefs. I was taught to empathize, to understand what another person is experiencing from within her frame of reference, to see the world through her eyes.

That’s eerily like my approach to characters; it’s my job to discover who these “beings” are who wander into my brain and take up residence, and helping them develop personalities that serve themselves and the story.

And then there’s the other part: I’m nosy. I like to watch other people and know what they’re feeling. If they won’t share, I imagine it. Okay, there’s more, I like to deconstruct and manipulate those feelings too, but I try to limit that to my characters. So, on the bulletin board over my computer is a large piece of newsprint, covered with the complicated and sprawling family tree of my characters. Yes, the major characters in four novels and over a dozen short stories are all somehow related – by blood or love or geography or circumstance. They’re my literary karass. (For those of you who are not Vonnegut fans, that’s a term he coined for a group of people linked in a cosmically significant manner.)

So, to the woman who asked the question last night – I wish I knew your name – let me answer that being a writer, like being a nurse, gives me the opportunity, the privilege, of sticking my nose into the business of others with as much respect and curiosity and skill and love as I can muster. Read More 

On Friday our local paper, the Hampshire Gazette, published a guest editorial Robby wrote about the strange convergences between Billie Holiday and Ethel Rosenberg, both of whom would have turned 100 this year. I think it’s a gorgeous piece, simultaneously thoughtful and timely.

Our cats didn’t agree.

This morning, the editorial page was shredded, particularly Robby’s essay. We know that Cory (aka Coriopsis) was responsible. He chews paper, while Loopy (aka Lupine) prefers plastic.

Robby’s comment: “Everyone’s a critic.”

It got me thinking about how we handle the promotion – and the criticism – of our work. I’m smack in the middle of the book tour for my new novel; I’ve done thirteen events in the past two months and another two dozen scheduled are through the spring and summer. Today, still unpacking from Texas and starting to prepare for Wednesday’s trip to Minneapolis, I’m both exhilarated and tired, both pleased and always wanting more. Without all the effort of promotion, new books would not find readers. But promotion has a high cost: I haven’t written a word of fiction in weeks, and it will be weeks before I can return to my manuscript-in-progress.

So today, in line with Cory’s breakfast and Robby’s comment, I think I need to take a deep breath, pick up one of the several books I’m halfway through, find a comfy chair, read and relax. If I’m lucky, Cory will curl up on my lap and purr.
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