“The End”
July 11, 2024
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Volcano love
Last October I did a writing residency in Naples, Italy. It coincided with a terrible time in my life, and to deal with my grief, I walked (and walked and walked). It didn’t take long for me to realize how Vesuvius dominated the landscape.
I couldn’t see it from my window, but I frequently walked down Via Santa Teresa degli Scalzi to the promenade along the Tyrrhenian Sea, where I could behold the full glory of the volcano that destroyed Pompeii. I came even more to appreciate the way I’d turn down a narrow cobblestone street and there, between the four-hundred year old apartment buildings, would be an unexpected, thrilling glimpse of Vesuvius. For whatever reason, I always found the sight reassuring.
Now, seven months later, I’m at another residency, Storyknife Writers Retreat outside Homer, Alaska, and the window of my writing cabin frames three volcanoes – Augustine, Iliamna and Redoubt. Iliamna is in the center, somehow befitting her status as the largest.
According to the National Park Service, Iliamna stands more than 10,000 feet tall, with 10 glaciers, and last erupted in 1867. She – anything with such beauty and power must be female, right? – remains active.
The name is Dena’ina, and references a legendary giant blackfish in Lake Iliamna that swims up from the depths to bite holes in boats, according to the Dictionary of Alaska Place Names.
Today, as I gaze across Cook Inlet, Iliamna is sunlit, with a bit of vapor trailing from her peak. I’ve taken countless photos of her, at all times of day and night, and no doubt will add a couple hundred more before my monthlong residency ends.
Like Vesuvius, she’s capable of immense destruction. But also as with Vesuvius, I find her presence reassuring – magnificent and mighty, reminding we humans of our own insignificance. Come to think of it, that may be what I like best about volcanoes.
Literary Libations
Sometimes I pick cocktails the same way I used to bet on racehorses—based on a cool name.
Take the Anton Chigurh at Missoula’s Plonk. At soon as I saw that name, I had to have it. Cormac McCarthy is one of my favorite writers, and Chigurh (from NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN) is one of literature’s most nightmare-inducing villains. The drink—featuring tequila and mezcal—was like a shot from the bolt gun the Chigurh employed on his victims. I was a happy camper.
A few days later, I came across The Lolita at the Old Post Pub. With Quicksilver, St. Germaine, Champagne, and a splash of soda, it seemed a little too sweet to be worth ordering, despite LOLITA being another favorite—and Humbert Humbert another memorable villain.
I’m apt to grab a bottle of Steele’s Writer’s Block wine when I see it on a store shelf, so it can sit on my own shelf as a talisman against same. And the aptly named Writer’s Tears whiskey gives a nod both to the stereotype of real writers drinking their whiskey neat (none of those fancy cocktails, thank you)—and also to what happens if they imbibe too much.
That said, literary-themed cocktail recipes abound, from the Margarita Atwood, from Merrily Grashin’s WOMEN’S LIBATION!, to the Tequila Mockingbird.
Me, I only get to drink these things once in awhile. Otherwise, my writer’s tears would be the real thing, not Irish whiskey. But if you’re inclined to put off achieving your daily word count by Googling around for recipes as I just did, there are plenty to peruse and save for the day when you’ve got something to celebrate. Cheers.
When plot arises from place – happenstance in Hanoi
Temple of Literature
When I found out that my sweetie was going to Vietnam as part of a U.S. State Department exchange program (the Young Southeast Asian Leaders Initiative, or YSEALI, administered by the University of Montana’s Mike and Maureen Mansfield Center), I jumped at the chance to tag along
Of course, the writer wheels also started turning, as I tried to come up with a plausible reason to send my protagonist, Lola Wicks, to Vietnam, too.
At first, it didn’t seem as though anything would work. Lola works at a small newspaper in Montana. Occasional freelance assignments send her around the West, but it seemed unlikely that any outfit would pony up the dough for such an expensive trip. Such plum assignments usually go to staff writers, or to big-name journalists, and Lola – despite her fast-receding past as a foreign correspondent – is a middle-size name on her best days.
I resigned myself to two weeks of tourism, awash in pho and Hanoi Beer. Tough duty, but I figured I was up to it. Funny thing happens, though, when you stop thinking hard about something. Ideas worm their way in.
On the 11-hour plane ride from Seattle to Seoul, one of those thoughts wriggled its way to the surface. Why does Lola have to be the one who goes? What if a significant plot point involved another character’s time in Vietnam?
Whoop, whoop, whoop! Sound the idea sirens! I couldn’t wait to get off the plane and back to WiFi World and do some research to see if it had merit. (News flash: It does.)
Just to be sure, though, I submitted it before the altars at the Temple of Literature, as beautiful and tranquil a spot to be found in all of Hanoi. The bronze Confucious his disciples stared benevolently back at me. And, following the lead of the locals, for luck I also patted the chest of a bronze crane and rubbed the head of the turtle upon which it stood. Covering all my bases, to apply an American metaphor.
We’ll see if this plot works out. In the meantime, I’m scurrying around Hanoi taking notes like a madwoman, glad to have purpose beyond simple tourism.