Montana 1948: a novel

readingSome years ago, I taught a literature course in which, among other works, we read Montana 1948, a powerful novel by Larry Watson. The book sparked interesting class discussions over a period of several weeks, though none more intriguing — to me at least — than the one that took place after I found myself reminding students we were talking about a work of fiction, which meant the story, though written in the first person, was not true.

One student, a very quiet young man who always sat in the way back, seemed not to have understood that the book was entirely spun out of sugar and air until he heard my jolting reminder. When my words registered with him, he looked as though I had punched him low and hard. Because he had all along believed the story to be true, he said he felt betrayed — so much so that he told us he would never again read another novel. Other students said they also felt bamboozled, though no one else vowed to give up on fiction for good.

Even when I was a very young and inexperienced writer of fiction and poetry, I often got twisted around this idea of truth-telling and wondered what it actually meant for me to be an honest writer of made-up stories and poems. Over time, I have come to think that truth-telling is any writer’s true north and that sensitive readers will know an honest piece of writing, no matter the genre, by the way it makes them feel. Judging by the student responses in my class, I’d say Larry Watson’s compass needle was stuck on “N” all the while he was writing Montana 1948.


“Hideously beautiful”

Scarlett Johansson Under the Skin

Jonathan Glazer’s sci-fi horror film Under the Skin is not for everyone, but, once seen, it seeps and settles.

The film stars Scarlett Johansson as the alien femme fatale who is somehow birthed onto the west coast of Scotland for the apparent sole purpose of hunting down lonely men in her white Ford Transit and luring them back to her dark, oozy flat. What she does with them once there we cannot know for sure, but evisceration seems to be a part of it.

Yet trying to understand its precise meaning is a fool’s errand because the power of the movie is in the evocative: in the dark, rainy streetscapes; in the dialogue that sounds sieved through gauze; in the menacing soundtrack that is like “a locust plague of dry tremolos, the strings pressing down until the sound has reached a roar.”

Or in a startling erection, a hand pierced by a rose thorn, a vacant stare above blood-red lips, a rapist gone silent and scared.

What is most potent about Under the Skin, though, is its insistence on showing us at every turn the terrible and terrifying power of sex — a power we little understand, and one that awakens in us that which is at once alien and deeply human.

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Two years!

Two years ago today, I wrote my first Ruminationville piece, “Underthinking is Overrated.” Typically not one to stick out difficult commitments for the long term—except, of course, the commitment of motherhood—I am amazed that I have managed to keep something going here. I can only attribute it to the quiet support of those who have been following me over these many months. Each time I sit down to write, I think of you…and of never wanting to disappoint. Here’s to another year, or two, or four!


Really we were jealous of Moira Keegan, who had had polio when she was small, but we pretended moral outrage. She was said to be fast, but no one actually knew this for sure or knew for sure what “fast” meant. Rumor had it that she let boys feel her up inside her blouse and that sometimes she hiked up her skirt so they could fool around up there. What they would do once they got to her cotton panties we didn’t know, not then, but privately we thought it had to be delicious. At least I thought that.

On the playground, Mrs. Lamb, Mrs. Curtis, and Mr. Downing, the fifth grade teachers, stood at the center of our dodge ball game and warned us about Moira. We were scared for her, and some of us were just scared. We could only imagine wet kissing, not much more, and even that was a big mystery.

One Saturday afternoon, I met Johnny D’Angelo, a hood, at the movies. He was with Kevin Kelleher, and the three of us sat together. Once the theater went dark, Johnny slid his arm around my shoulders, leaned over me, and went straight for a tonsil kiss. There was nothing tender about it or him. When it was over, he leaned towards Kevin and said something that made them both laugh. After that, the three of us stared up at the screen.

The following Monday, I knew I would have to face Johnny and say something. When he sauntered into the classroom, I was standing by the coat closet with some other little girls. “I’m not Moira Keegan,” I shouted across the room and surprised myself.